ECHOES  (ff  THE  WAR 


BARR-IE 


MAURI NE  L.    SCOTT 
2208  N.   Ross   Street 
Santa   Ana, Calif . 


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THE  WORKS  OF  J.  M.  BARRIE. 

AtJLD  LIGHT  IDYLLS.  BETTER  DEAD. 

WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  AN  EDINBURGH 

ELEVEN. 
THE  LITTLE  MINISTER. 
SENTIMENTAL    TOMMY. 

MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  MARGARET  OGILVY. 
TOMMY  AND    GRIZEL. 
THE  LITTLE   WHITE  BIRD. 
PETER  AND   WENDY. 
HALF  HOURS.  DER  TAG. 

The  above  lo  volumes  sold  separately.  Limp 

Leather,  $i  .75  Qet  each.     Cloth.  Si  .50  net  each. 

THE  PL  A  YS  OF  J.  M.  BARRIE. 
ECHOES  OF  THE  WAR. 
HALF  HOURS. 

THE  PROFESSOR'S  LOVE  STORY. 
QUALITY  STREET. 
THE  ADMIRABLE   CRICHTON. 
LITTLE  MARY. 
ALICE  SIT-BY-THE-FIRE. 
WHAT  EVERY   WOMAN  KNOWS. 
A  KISS  FOR  CINDERELLA. 
DEAR  BRUTUS. 
PETER  PAN. 
SEVEN  WOMEN. 
THE  TWELVE  POUND  LOOK.  ETC. 


SENTIMENTAL  TOMMY. 

Illustrated  by  William  Hatheeell. 
TOMMY  AND  GRIZEL. 

Illustrated  by  Bernard  Partridge. 
MARGARET  OGILVY. 

A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.     Cameo  Edition. 
PETER  PAN  IN   KENSINGTON  GARDENS. 

With  16  Illustrations  by  Aethuk  Rackham. 
PETER  AND  WENDY. 

Illustrated  by  F.  D.  Bedford. 
DER  TAG. 

,%  For  particulars  concerning  The  Thistle 
Edition  of  the  Works  of  J.  M.  Barrie,  sold  only 
by  subscription,  send  for  circular. 

NEW  YORK :    CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


ECHOES  OF  THE  WAR 


ECHOES  OF  THE  WAR 


BY 

J.  M.  BARRIE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1919 


COFTBIQHT,   1918,  BT 

J,  M.  BARRIE 


Published  November,  1918 
Reprinted  December,  1918 


All  rights  reserved  under  the  International  Copyright  Act. 
Performance  forbidden  and  right  of  representation  reserved. 
Applications  for  the  right  of  performing  these  plays  must  be 
made  to  Charles  Frohman,  Inc.,  Empire  Theatre,  New  York. 


407-4- 


CONTENTS 


PA6B 


The  Old  Lady  Shows  Her  Medals  .     .  1 

The  New  Word 65 

Barbara's  Wedding  .......  109 

A  Well-Remembered  Voice     ....  143 


THE    OLD    LADY    SHOWS    HER 
MEDALS 


THE  OLD  LADY  SHOWS  HER 
MEDALS* 

Three  nice  old  ladies  and  a  criminal,  who  is 
even  nicer,  are  discussing  the  war  over  a  cup 
of  tea.  The  criminal,  who  is  the  hostess,  calls 
it  a  dish  of  tea,  which  shows  that  she  comes 
from  Caledonia;  but  that  is  not  her  crime. 

They  are  all  London  charwomen,  but  three 
of  them,  including  the  hostess,  are  what  are 
called  professionally  'charwomen  and'  or  sim- 
ply 'ands.'  An  'and'  is  also  a  caretaker 
when  required;  her  name  is  entered  as  such  in 
ink  in  a  registry  book,  financial  transactions 
take  place  across  a  counter  between  her  and 
the  registrar,  and  altogether  she  is  of  a  very 
different  social  status  from  one  who,  like  Mrs. 
Haggerty,  is  a  charwoman  but  nothing  else. 
Mrs.  Haggerty,  though  present,  is  not  at  the 
party  by  invitation;  having  seen  Mrs.  Dowey 
buying  the  winkles,  she  followed  her  down- 

*  Copyright,  1918,  by  J.  M.  Barrie. 
3 


4  THE  OLD  LADY 

stairs,  and  so  has  shuffled  into  the  play  and 
sat  down  in  it  against  our  wish.  We  would 
remove  her  by  force,  or  at  least  print  her 
name  in  small  letters,  were  it  not  that  she 
takes  offence  very  readily  and  says  that  no- 
body respects  her.  So,  as  you  have  slipped 
in,  you  can  sit  there,  Mrs.  Haggerty;  but  keep 
quiet. 

There  is  nothing  doing  at  present  in  the 
caretaking  way  for  Mrs.  Dowey,  our  hostess; 
but  this  does  not  damp  her,  caretaking  being 
only  to  such  as  she  an  extra  financially  and  a 
halo  socially.  If  she  had  the  honour  of  being 
served  with  an  income-tax  paper  she  would 
probably  fill  in  one  of  the  nasty  little  com- 
partments with  the  words,  *  Trade — charring; 
Profession  (if  any) — caretaking.'  This  home 
of  hers  (from  which,  to  look  after  your  house, 
she  makes  occasionally  temporary  departures 
in  great  style,  escorting  a  barrow)  is  in  one  of 
those  what-care-I  streets  that  you  discover 
only  when  you  have  lost  your  way;  on  discov- 
ering them,  your  duty  is  to  report  them  to 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  5 

the  authorities,  who  immediately  add  them 
to  the  map  of  London.  That  is  why  we  are 
now  reporting  Friday  Street.  We  shall  call 
it,  in  the  rough  sketch  drawn  for  to-morrow's 
press,  'Street  in  which  the  criminal  resided'; 
and  you  will  find  Mrs.  Dowey's  home  therein 
marked  with  a  X. 

Her  abode  really  consists  of  one  room,  but 
she  maintains  that  there  are  two;  so,  rather 
than  argue,  let  us  say  that  there  are  two.  The 
other  one  has  no  window,  and  she  could  not 
swish  her  old  skirts  in  it  without  knocking 
something  over;  its  grandest  display  is  of  tin 
pans  and  crockery  on  top  of  a  dresser  which 
has  a  lid  to  it;  you  have  but  to  whip  off  the 
utensils  and  raise  the  lid,  and,  behold,  a  bath 
with  hot  and  cold.  Mrs.  Dowey  is  very 
proud  of  this  possession,  and  w^hen  she  shows 
it  off,  as  she  does  perhaps  too  frequently,  she 
first  signs  to  you  with  closed  fist  (funny  old 
thing  that  she  is)  to  approach  softly.  She 
then  tiptoes  to  the  dresser  and  pops  off  the 
lid,  as  if  to  take  the  bath  unawares.     Then 


6  THE  OLD  LADY 

she  sucks  her  Hps,  and  is  modest  if  you  have 
the  grace  to  do  the  exclamations. 

In  the  real  room  is  a  bed,  though  that  is 
putting  the  matter  too  briefly.  The  fair  way 
to  begin,  if  you  love  Mrs.  Dowey,  is  to  say  to 
her  that  it  is  a  pity  she  has  no  bed.  If  she 
is  in  her  best  form  she  will  chuckle,  and  agree 
that  the  want  of  a  bed  tries  her  sore;  she  will 
keep  you  on  the  hooks,  so  to  speak,  as  long 
as  she  can;  and  then,  with  that  mouse-like 
movement  again,  she  will  suddenly  spring  the 
bed  on  you.  You  thought  it  was  a  wardrobe, 
but  she  brings  it  down  from  the  wall;  and  lo, 
a  bed.  There  is  nothing  else  in  her  abode 
(which  we  now  see  to  contain  four  rooms — 
kitchen,  pantry,  bedroom,  and  bathroom) 
that  is  absolutely  a  surprise;  but  it  is  full  of 
'bits,'  every  one  of  which  has  been  paid  ready 
money  for,  and  gloated  over  and  tended  until 
it  has  become  part  of  its  owner.  Genuine 
Doweys,  the  dealers  might  call  them,  though 
there  is  probably  nothing  in  the  place  except 
the  bed  that  would  fetch  half-a-crown. 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  7 

Her  home  is  in  the  basement,  so  that  the 
view  is  restricted  to  the  lower  half  of  persons 
passing  overhead  beyond  the  area  stairs. 
Here  at  the  window  Mrs.  Dowey  sometimes 
sits  of  a  summer  evening  gazing,  not  senti- 
mentally at  a  flower-pot  which  contains  one 
poor  bulb,  nor  yearningly  at  some  tiny  speck 
of  sky,  but  with  unholy  relish  at  holes  in 
stockings,  and  the  like,  which  are  revealed  to 
her  from  her  point  of  vantage.  You,  gentle 
reader,  may  flaunt  by,  thinking  that  your 
finery  awes  the  street,  but  Mrs.  Dowey  can 
tell  (and  does)  that  your  soles  are  in  need  of 
neat  repair. 

Also,  lower  parts  being  as  expressive  as  the 
face  to  those  whose  view  is  thus  limited,  she 
could  swear  to  scores  of  the  passers-by  in  a 
court  of  law. 

These  four  lively  old  codgers  are  having  a 
good  time  at  the  tea-table,  and  wit  is  flowing 
free.  As  you  can  see  by  their  everyday  gar- 
ments, and  by  their  pails  and  mops  (which 
are  having  a  little  tea-party  by  themselves  in 


8  THE  OLD  LADY 

the  comer),  it  is  not  a  gathering  by  invita- 
tions stretching  away  into  yesterday,  it  is  a 
purely  informal  affair;  so  much  more  attrac- 
tive, don't  you  think?  than  banquets  elabo- 
rately prearranged.  You  know  how  they 
come  about,  especially  in  war-time.  Very 
likely  Mrs.  Dowey  met  Mrs.  Twymley  and 
Mrs.  Mickleham  quite  casually  in  the  street, 
and  meant  to  do  no  more  than  pass  the  time 
of  day;  then,  naturally  enough,  the  word 
camouflage  was  mentioned,  and  they  got 
heated,  but  in  the  end  Mrs.  Twymley  apolo- 
gised; then,  in  the  odd  way  in  which  one 
thing  leads  to  another,  the  winkle  man  ap- 
peared, and  Mrs.  Dowey  remembered  that 
she  had  that  pot  of  jam  and  that  Mrs.  Mickle- 
ham had  stood  treat  last  time;  and  soon  they 
were  all  three  descending  the  area  stairs,  fol- 
lowed cringingly  by  the  Haggerty  Woman. 

They  have  been  extremely  merry,  and 
never  were  four  hard-worked  old  ladies  who 
deserved  it  better.  All  a  woman  can  do  in 
war-time  they  do  daily  and  cheerfully,  just 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  9 

as  their  men -folk  are  doing  it  at  the  Front; 
and  now,  with  the  mops  and  pails  laid  aside, 
they  sprawl  gracefully  at  ease.  There  is  no 
intention  on  their  part  to  consider  peace 
terms  until  a  decisive  victory  has  been  gained 
in  the  field  (Sarah  Ann  Dowey),  until  the 
Kaiser  is  put  to  the  right-about  (Emma 
Mickleham),  and  singing  very  small  (Amelia 
Twymley ) . 

At  this  tea-party  the  lady  who  is  to  play 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Dowey  is  sure  to  want  to 
suggest  that  our  heroine  has  a  secret  sorrow, 
namely,  the  crime;  but  you  should  see  us 
knocking  that  idea  out  of  her  head !  Mrs. 
Dowey  knows  she  is  a  criminal,  but,  unlike 
the  actress,  she  does  not  know  that  she  is 
about  to  be  found  out;  and  she  is,  to  put  it 
bluntly  in  her  own  Scotch  way,  the  merriest 
of  the  whole  clanjamfry.  She  presses  more 
tea  on  her  guests,  but  they  wave  her  away 
from  them  in  the  pretty  manner  of  ladies 
who  know  that  they  have  already  had  more 
than  enough. 


10  THE  OLD  LADY 

Mrs.  Dowey.  'Just  one  more  winkle,  Mrs. 
Micklehani?'  Indeed  there  is  only  one 
more. 

But  Mrs.  Mickleham  indicates  politely 
that  if  she  took  this  one  it  would  have  to 
swim  for  it.  (The  Haggerty  Woman  takes 
it  long  afterwards  when  she  thinks,  erro- 
neously, that  no  one  is  looking.) 

Mrs.  Twymley  is  sulking.  Evidently 
some  one  has  contradicted  her.  Probably 
the  Haggerty  Woman. 

Mrs.  Twymley.     'I  say  it  is  so.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'I  say  it  may  be 
so.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  *I  suppose  I  ought  to 
know:  me  that  has  a  son  a  prisoner  in  Ger- 
many.' She  has  so  obviously  scored  that 
all  ^ood  feeling  seems  to  call  upon  her  to 
end  here.  But  she  continues  rather  shab- 
bily, 'Being  the  only  lady  present  that  has 
that  proud  misfortune.'  The  others  are 
stung. 

Mrs.  Dowey.    'My  son  is  fighting  in  France.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  11 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  *  Mine  is  wounded  in  two 
places/ 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  *Mine  is  at  Salo- 
naiky.' 

The  absurd  pronunciation  of  this  uned- 
ucated person  moves  the  others  to  mirth. 

Mrs.  Dowey.  'You  'U  excuse  us,  Mrs.  Hag- 
gerty, but  the  correct  pronunciation  is  Sa- 
lonikky.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman,  to  cover  her  con- 
fusion. 'I  don't  think.'  She  feels  that 
even  this  does  not  prove  her  case.  'And  I 
speak  as  one  that  has  War  Savings  Certifi- 
cates.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.     'We  all  have  them.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman  whimpers,  and  the 
other  guests  regard  her  with  unfeeling  dis- 
dain. 

Mrs.  Dowey,  to  restore  cheerfulness,  *0h, 
it 's  a  terrible  war.' 

All,  brightening,  'It  is.     You  may  say  so.' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  encouraged,  'What  I  say  is, 
the  men  is  splendid,  but  I'm  none  so  easy 


12  THE  OLD  LADY 

about  the  staff.     That 's  your  weak  point, 

Mrs.  Mickleham.' 
Mrs.  Mickleham,  on  the  defence,  but  de- 
termined to  reveal  nothing  that  might  be 

of  use  to  the  enemy,  '  You  may  take  it  from 

me,  the  staff  's  all  right.' 
Mrs.  Dowey.     'And  very  relieved  I  am  to 

hear  you  say  it.' 

It  is  here  that  the  Haggerty  Woman  has 

the  remaining  winkle. 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     'You  don't  understand 

properly  about  trench  warfare.     If  I  had  a 

map— — ' 
Mrs.  Dowey,  wetting  her  finger  to  draw  lines 

on  the  table.     'That 's  the  river  Sommy. 

Now,  if  we  had  barrages  here ' 

Mrs.    Twymley.     'Very    soon    you    would 

be  enfilided.     Where  's  your  supports,  my 

lady.'^'     Mrs.  Dowey  is  damped. 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     '  What  none  of  you  grasps 

is  that  this  is  a  artillery  war ' 

The  Haggerty  Woman,  strengthened  by  the 

winkle,  'I  say  that  the  word  is  Salonaiky.' 

The  others  purse  their  lips. 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  13 

Mrs.  Twy^iley,  with  terrible  meaning, '  We  '11 
change  the  subject.  Have  you  seen  this 
week's  Fashion  Chat  ? '  She  has  evidently 
seen  and  devoured  it  herself,  and  even 
licked  up  the  crumbs.  'The  gabardine 
with  accordion  pleats  has  quite  gone  out.' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  her  old  face  sparkling.  *My 
sakes  !     You  tell  me  ? ' 

Mrs.  Twymley,  with  the  touch  of  haughti- 
ness that  comes  of  great  topics,  'The  plain 
smock  has  come  in  again,  with  silk  lacing, 
giving  that  charming  chic  effect.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.     'Oho!' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  'I  must  say  I  was  always 
partial  to  the  straight  line' — thoughtfully 
regarding  the  want  of  line  in  Mrs.  Twym- 
ley's  person — 'though  trying  to  them  as  is 
of  too  friendly  a  figure.' 

It  is  here  that  the  Haggerty  Woman's 
fingers  close  unostentatiously  upon  a  piece 
of  sugar. 

Mrs.  Twymley,  sailing  into  the  Empyrean, 
'Lady  Dolly  Kanister  was  seen  conversing 
across  the  railings  in  a  dainty  de  jou.* 


14  THE  OLD  LADY 

Mrs.  Dowey.  Tine  would  I  have  liked  to 
see  her.* 

Mrs.  Twymley.  *She  is  equally  popular  as 
maid,  wife,  and  munition-worker.  Her  two 
children  is  inset.  Lady  Pops  Babington 
was  married  in  a  tight  tulle.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  *What  was  her  going- 
away  dress?' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  *A  champagny  cream  vel- 
vet with  dreamy  corsage.  She  's  married 
to  Colonel  the  Hon.  Chingford — *' Snubs," 
they  called  him  at  Eton.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman,  having  disposed  of 
the  sugar,  'Very  likely  he  '11  be  sent  to 
Salonaiky.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  'Wherever  he  is  sent, 
she  '11  have  the  same  tremors  as  the  rest  of 
us.  She  '11  be  as  keen  to  get  the  letters 
wrote  with  pencils  as  you  or  me.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.     'Them  pencil  letters!' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  in  her  sweet  Scotch  voice,  tim- 
idly, afraid  she  may  be  going  too  far,  'And 
women  in  enemy  lands  gets  those  pencil 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  15 

letters   and   then   stop   getting   them,    the 

same  as  ourselves.    Let 's  occasionally  think 

of  that.' 

She  has  gone  too  far.     Chairs  are  pushed 

back. 
The  Haggerty  Woman.     *I  ask  you!' 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     'That 's  hardly  language, 

Mrs.  Dowey.' 
Mrs.    Dowey,    scared,    'Kindly    excuse.     I 

swear  to  death  I  'm  none  of  your  pacifists.' 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     'Freely  granted.' 
Mrs.  Twymley.     '  I  've  heard  of  females  that 

have  no  male  relations,  and  so  they  have 

no  man-party  at  the  wars.     I  've  heard  of 

them,  but  I  don't  mix  with  them.' 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     'What  can  the  likes  of 

us  have  to  say  to  them  ?    It 's  not  their 

war.' 
Mrs.    Dowey,   wistfully,    'They   are   to   be 

pitied.' 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     'But  the  place  for  them, 

Mrs.  Dowey,  is  within  doors  with  the  blinds 

down.' 


16  THE  OLD  LADY 

Mrs.  Dowey,  hurriedly,  'That's  the  place 
for  them.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  *I  saw  one  of  them  to- 
day buying  a  flag.  I  thought  it  was  very 
impudent  of  her.' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  meekly,  *So  it  was.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham,  trying  to  look  modest  with 
indifferent  success,  'I  had  a  letter  from  my 
son,  Percy,  yesterday.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.     'Alfred  sent  me  his  photo. 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'Letters  from  Salo- 
naiky  is  less  common.' 

Three  bosoms  heave,  but  not,  alas,  Mrs. 
Dowey's.  Nevertheless  she  doggedly  knits 
her  lips. 

Mrs.  Dowey,  the  criminal,  'Kenneth  writes 
to  me  every  week.'  There  are  exclama- 
tions. The  dauntless  old  thing  holds  aloft 
a  packet  of  letters.  'Look  at  this.  All 
his.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman  whimpers. 

Mrs.  Twymley.  'Alfred  has  little  time  for 
writing,  being  a  bombardier.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  17 

Mrs.  Dowey,  relentlessly,  'Do  your  letters 
begin  "Dear  mother"?' 

Mrs.  Twymley.     'Generally.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.     'Invariable.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.     'Every  time.' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  delivering  the  knock-out  blow, 
'Kenneth's  begin  "Dearest  mother."' 
No  one  can  think  of  the  right  reply. 

Mrs.  Twymley,  doing  her  best,  'A  short  man, 
I  should  say,  judging  by  yourself.' 
She  ought  to  have  left  it  alone. 

Mrs.  Dowey.     'Six  feet  two — and  a  half.' 
The  gloom  deepens. 

Mrs.  Mickleham,  against  her  better  judg- 
ment, 'A  kilty,  did  you  tell  me?' 

Mrs.  Dowey.  '  Most  certainly.  He 's  in 
the  famous  Black  Watch.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman,  producing  her  hand- 
kerchief, 'The  Surrey  Rifles  is  the  famous- 
est.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  'There  you  and  the  King 
disagrees,  Mrs.  Haggerty.  His  choice  is 
the  Buffs,  same  as  my  Percy's.' 


18  THE  OLD  LADY 

Mrs.  Twymley,  magnanimously,  'Give  me 
the  R.H.A.  and  you  can  keep  all  the  rest.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.  'I  'm  sure  I  have  nothing  to 
say  against  the  Surreys  and  the  R.H.A.  and 
the  Buffs;  but  they  are  just  breeches  regi- 
ments, I  understand.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'We  can't  all  be 
kilties.' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  crushingly,  'That 's  very  true.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  It  is  foolish  of  her,  but  she 
can't  help  saying  it.  'Has  your  Kenneth 
great  hairy  legs.^^' 

Mrs.  Dowey.     'Tremendous.' 

The  wicked  woman:  but  let  us  also  say 
'Poor  Sarah  Ann  Dowey.'  For  at  this  mo- 
ment, enter  Nemesis.  In  other  words,  the 
less  important  part  of  a  clergyman  appears 
upon  the  stair. 

Mrs.  Mickleham.     'It 's  the  reverent  gent !' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  little  knowing  what  he  is  bring- 
ing her,  'I  see  he  has  had  his  boots  heeled.' 
It  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Willings  that  his 
happy  smile  always  walks  in  front  of  him. 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  19 

This  smile  makes  music  of  his  hfe,  it  means 
that  once  again  he  has  been  chosen,  in  his 
opinion,  as  the  central  figure  in  romance. 
No  one  can  well  have  led  a  more  drab  ex- 
istence, but  he  will  never  know  it;  he  will 
always  think  of  himself,  humbly  though 
elatedly,  as  the  chosen  of  the  gods.  Of 
him  must  it  have  been  originally  written 
that  adventures  are  for  the  adventurous. 
He  meets  them  at  every  street  corner.  For 
instance,  he  assists  an  old  lady  off  a  bus, 
and  asks  her  if  he  can  be  of  any  further 
help.  She  tells  him  that  she  wants  to  know 
the  way  to  Maddox  the  butcher's.  Then 
comes  the  kind,  triumphant  smile;  it  al- 
ways comes  first,  followed  by  its  explana- 
tion, *  I  was  there  yesterday  ! '  This  is  the 
merest  sample  of  the  adventures  that  keep 
Mr.  Willings  up  to  the  mark. 

Since  the  war  broke  out,  his  zest  for  life 
has  become  almost  terrible.  He  can  scarcely 
lift  a  newspaper  and  read  of  a  hero  without 
rememberini*:  that  he  knows  some  one  of 


20  THE  OLD  LADY 

the  same  name.  The  Soldiers'  Rest  he  is 
connected  with  was  once  a  china  empo- 
rium, and  (mark  my  words),  he  had  bought 
his  tea  service  at  it.  Such  is  life  when  you 
are  in  the  thick  of  it.  Sometimes  he  feels 
that  he  is  part  of  a  gigantic  spy  drama. 
In  the  course  of  his  extraordinary  comings 
and  goings  he  meets  with  Great  Personages, 
of  course,  and  is  the  confidential  recipient 
of  secret  news.  Before  imparting  the  news 
he  does  not,  as  you  might  expect,  first  smile 
expansively;  on  the  contrary,  there  comes 
over  his  face  an  awful  solemnity,  which, 
however,  means  the  same  thing.  When 
divulging  the  names  of  the  personages,  he 
first  looks  around  to  make  sure  that  no 
suspicious  character  is  about,  and  then, 
lowering  his  voice,  tells  you,  'I  had  that 
from  Mr.  Farthing  himseK — he  is  the  sec- 
retary of  the  Bethnal  Green  Branch, — 
h'sh!' 

There  is  a  commotion  about  finding  a 
worthy  chair  for  the  reverent,  and  there  is 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  21 

also  some  furtive  pulling  down  of  sleeves, 
but  he  stands  surveying  the  ladies  through 
his  triumphant  smile.  This  amazing  man 
knows  that  he  is  about  to  score  again. 

Mr.  Willings,  waving  aside  the  chairs,  *I 
thank  you.  But  not  at  all.  Friends,  I 
have  news.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.     *News?' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.     *From  the  Front  .f^' 

Mrs.  Twymley.     'My  Alfred,  sir.?' 

They  are  all  grown  suddenly  anxious — 
all  except  the  hostess,  who  knows  that  there 
can  never  be  any  news  from  the  Front  for 
her. 

Mr.  Willings.     *I  tell  you  at  once  that  all  is 
well.     The  news  is  for  Mrs.  Dowey.' 
She  stares. 

Mrs.  Dowey.     *  News  for  me?' 

Mr.  Willings.  'Your  son,  Mrs.  Dowey — he 
has  got  five  days'  leave.'  She  shakes  her 
head  slightly,  or  perhaps  it  only  trembles  a 
little  on  its  stem.  'Now,  now,  good  news 
doesn't  kill.' 


22  THE  OLD  LADY 

Mrs.  Twymley.     *We  're  glad,  Mrs.  Dowey.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.     'You 're  sure.?' 

Mr.  Willings.  'Quite  sure.  He  has  ar- 
rived.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.     'He  is  in  London?' 

Mr.  Willings.  'He  is.  I  have  spoken  to 
him.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.     'You  lucky  woman.' 
They  might  see  that  she  is  not  looking 
lucky,  but  experience  has  told  them  how 
differently  these  things  take  people. 

Mr.  Willings,  marvelling  more  and  more  as 
he  unfolds  his  tale,  'Ladies,  it  is  quite  a  ro- 
mance.    I  was  in  the '  he  looks  around 

cautiously,  but  he  knows  that  they  are  all 
to  be  trusted — 'in  the  Church  Army  quar- 
ters in  Central  Street,  trying  to  get  on  the 
track  of  one  or  two  of  our  missing  men. 
Suddenly  my  eyes — I  can't  account  for  it 
— but  suddenly  my  eyes  alighted  on  a 
Highlander  seated  rather  drearily  on  a 
bench,  with  his  kit  at  his  feet.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.     'A  big  man?* 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  23 

Mr.  Willings.  'A  great  brawny  fellow.' 
The  Haggerty  Woman  groans.  '"My 
friend,"  I  said  at  once,  "welcome  back  to 
Blighty."  I  make  a  point  of  calling  it 
Blighty.  "I  wonder,"  I  said,  "if  there 
is  anything  I  can  do  for  you.'^"  He  shook 
his  head.  *'What  regiment .''"  I  asked.' 
Here  Mr.  Willings  very  properly  lowers 
his  voice  to  a  whisper.  '"Black  Watch, 
5th  Battalion,"  he  said.  "Name.?"  I 
asked.     "Dowey,"  he  said.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  *I  declare.  I  do  de- 
clare.' 

Mr.  Willings,  showing  how  the  thing  was 
done,  with  the  help  of  a  chair,  'I  put  my 
hand  on  his  shoulder  as  it  might  be  thus. 
"Kenneth  Dowey,"  I  said,  "I  know  your 
mother."' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  wetting  her  lips,  'What  did  he 
say  to  that.f*' 

Mr.  Willings.  'He  was  incredulous.  In- 
deed, he  seemed  to  think  I  was  balmy. 
But  I  offered  to  bring  him  straight  to  you. 


24  THE  OLD  LADY 

I  told  him  how  much  you  had  talked  to 
me  about  him.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.     'Bring  him  here!' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  'I  wonder  he  needed  to 
be  brought.' 

Mr.  Willings.  'He  had  just  arrived,  and 
was  bewildered  by  the  great  city.  He  lis- 
tened to  me  in  the  taciturn  Scotch  way, 
and  then  he  gave  a  curious  laugh.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.     '  Laugh  .f^' 

Mr.  Willings,  whose  wild  life  has  brought 
him  into  contact  with  the  strangest  people, 
'The  Scotch,  Mrs.  Twymley,  express  their 
emotions  differently  from  us.  With  them 
tears  signify  a  rollicking  mood,  while  merri- 
ment denotes  that  they  are  plunged  in 
gloom.  When  I  had  finished  he  said  at 
once,  "Let  us  go  and  see  the  old  lady."' 

Mrs.  Dowey,  backing,  which  is  the  first 
movement  she  has  made  since  he  began  his 
tale,  'Is  he — coming .f^' 

Mr.  Willings,  gloriously,  'He  has  come.  He 
is  up  there.  I  told  him  I  thought  I  had 
better  break  the  joyful  news  to  you.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  25 

Three  women  rush  to  the  window.  Mrs. 
Dowey  looks  at  her  pantry  door,  but  per- 
haps she  remembers  that  it  does  not  lock 
on  the  inside.  She  stands  rigid,  though 
her  face  has  gone  very  grey. 

Mrs.  Dowey.    'Kindly  get  them  to  go  away.' 

Mr.  Willings.  'Ladies,  I  think  this  happy 
occasion  scarcely  requires  you.'  He  is  not 
the  man  to  ask  of  woman  a  sacrifice  that  he 
is  not  prepared  to  make  himself.  'I  also 
am  going  instantly.'  They  all  survey  Mrs. 
Dowey,  and  understand — or  think  they 
understand. 

Mrs.  Twymley,  pail  and  mop  in  hand,  'I 
would  thank  none  for  their  company  if  my 
Alfred  was  at  the  door.' 

Mrs.  Mickleham,  similarly  burdened,  'The 
same  from  me.  Shall  I  send  him  down, 
Mrs.  Dowey  ? '  The  old  lady  does  not  hear 
her.  She  is  listening,  terrified,  for  a  step 
on  the  stairs.  'Look  at  the  poor,  joyous 
thing,  sir.  She  has  his  letters  in  her  hand.' 
The  three  women  go.  Mr.  Willings  puts 
a  kind  hand   on   Mrs.   Dowey's  shoulder. 


26  THE   OLD   LADY 

He  thinks  he  so   thoroughly   understands 
the  situation. 
Mr.  Willings.      *A  good  son,  Mrs.  Dowey, 
to  have  written  to  you  so  often.' 

Our  old  criminal  quakes,  but  she  grips 
the  letters  more  tightly.  Private  Dowey 
descends. 

*  Dowey,  my  friend,  there  she  is,  waiting 
for  you,  with  your  letters  in  her  hand.' 
Dowey,  grimly,  'That 's  great.' 

Mr.  Willings  ascends  the  stair  without 
one  backward  glance,  like  the  good  gentle- 
man he  is;  and  the  Dowey s  are  left  to- 
gether, with  nearly  the  whole  room  be- 
tween them.  He  is  a  great  rough  chunk  of 
Scotland,  howked  out  of  her  not  so  much 
neatly  as  liberally;  and  in  his  Black  Watch 
uniform,  all  caked  with  mud,  his  kit  and 
nearly  all  his  worldly  possessions  on  his 
back,  he  is  an  apparition  scarcely  less  fear- 
some (but  so  much  less  ragged)  than  those 
ancestors  of  his  who  trotted  with  Prince 
Charlie  to  Derby.  He  stands  silent,  scowl- 
ing at  the  old  lady,  daring  her  to  raise  her 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  27 

head;  and  she  would  hke  very  much  to  do 
it,  for  she  longs  to  have  a  first  glimpse  of 
her  son.  When  he  does  speak,  it  is  to  jeer 
at  her. 

*Do  you  recognise  your  loving  son,  mis- 
sis?' ('Oh,  the  fine  Scotch  tang  of  him,' 
she  thinks.)  'I  'm  pleased  I  wrote  so 
often.'  ('Oh,  but  he  's  raized,'  she  thinks.) 
He  strides  towards  her,  and  seizes  the  letters 
roughly.     'Let 's  see  them.' 

There  is  a  string  round  the  package,  and 
he  unties  it,  and  examines  the  letters  at  his 
leisure  with  much  curiosity.  The  envel- 
opes are  in  order,  all  addressed  in  pencil 
to  Mrs.  Dowey,  with  the  proud  words 
'Opened  by  Censor'  on  them.  But  the  let- 
ter paper  inside  contains  not  a  word  of 
writing. 

'  Nothing  but  blank  paper  !  Is  this  your 
writing  in  pencil  on  the  envelope?'  She 
nods,  and  he  gives  the  matter  further  con- 
sideration. 

'The  covey  told  me  you  were  a  char- 
woman ;  so  I  suppose  you  picked  the  envel- 


88  THE  OLD  LADY 

opes  out  of  waste-paper  baskets,  or  such 
like,  and  then  changed  the  addresses?' 
She  nods  again;  still  she  dare  not  look  up, 
but  she  is  admiring  his  legs.  When,  how- 
ever, he  would  cast  the  letters  into  the  fire, 
she  flames  up  with  sudden  spirit.  She 
clutches  them. 

*  Don't  you  burn  them  letters,  mister.' 

*They  're  not  real  letters.' 

*They  're  all  I  have.' 

He  returns  to  irony.  '  I  thought  you  had 
a  son  ? ' 

'I  never  had  a  man  nor  a  son  nor  any- 
thing. I  just  call  myself  Missis  to  give  me 
a  standing.' 

'Well,  it 's  past  my  seeing  through.' 

He  turns  to  look  for  some  explanation 
from  the  walls.  She  gets  a  peep  at  him  at 
last.  Oh,  what  a  grandly  set-up  man ! 
Oh,  the  stride  of  him.  Oh,  the  noble 
rage  of  him.  Oh,  Samson  had  been  like 
this  before  that  woman  took  him  in 
hand. 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  «9 

He  whirls  round  on  her.  *Wliat  made 
you  do  it?' 

'It  was  everybody's  war,  mister,  except 
mine.'  She  beats  her  arms.  'I  wanted  it 
to  be  my  war  too.' 

*  You  '11  need  to  be  plainer.  And  yet  I  'm 
d — d  if  I  care  to  hear  you,  you  lying  old 
trickster.' 

The  words  are  merely  what  were  to  be 
expected,  and  so  are  endurable;  but  he  has 
moved  towards  the  door. 

'You  're  not  going  already,  mister?' 

'Yes,  I  just  came  to  give  you  an  ugly 
piece  of  my  mind.' 

She  holds  out  her  arms  longingly.  'You 
haven't  gave  it  to  me  yet.' 

'  You  have  a  cheek ! ' 

She  gives  further  proof  of  it.  'You 
wouldn't  drink  some  tea?' 

'  Me  !  I  tell  you  I  came  here  for  the  one 
purpose  of  blazing  away  at  you.' 

It  is  such  a  roaring  negative  that  it 
blows  her  into  a  chair.     But  she  is  up  again 


30  THE  OLD  LADY 

in  a  moment,  is  this  spirited  old  lady. 
'You  could  drink  the  tea  while  you  was 
blazing  away.     There  's  winkles.' 

'Is  there .f^'  He  turns  interestedly  to- 
wards the  table,  but  his  proud  Scots  char- 
acter checks  him,  which  is  just  as  well,  for 
what  she  should  have  said  was  that  there 
had  been  winkles.  '  Not  me.  You  're  just  a 
common  rogue.'  He  seats  himself  far  from 
the  table.  'Now,  then,  out  with  it.  Sit 
down!'  She  sits  meekly;  there  is  nothing 
she  would  not  do  for  him.  'As  you  char,  I 
suppose  you  are  on  your  feet  all  day.' 

'I  'm  more  on  my  knees.' 

'That 's  where  you  should  be  to  me.' 

*0h,  mister,  I  'm  willing.' 

'Stop  it.  Go  on,  you  accomplished 
liar.' 

'It 's  true  that  my  name  is  Dowey.' 

'It 's  enough  to  make  me  change  mine.' 

*I  've  been  charring  and  charring  and 
charring  as  far  back  as  I  mind.  I  've  been 
in  London  this  twenty  years.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  31 

*  We  '11  skip  your  early  days.  I  have  an 
appointment.' 

'And  then  when  I  was  old  the  war  broke 
out.' 

'  How  could  it  affect  you  ? ' 

'Oh,  mister,  that 's  the  thing.  It  didn't 
affect  me.  It  affected  everybody  but  me. 
The  neighbours  looked  down  on  me.  Even 
the  posters,  on  the  walls,  of  the  woman 
saying,  "Go,  my  boy,"  leered  at  me.  I 
sometimes  cried  by  myself  in  the  dark. 
You  won't  have  a  cup  of  tea  ? ' 

'No.' 

'Sudden  like  the  idea  came  to  me  to 
pretend  I  had  a  son.' 

'  You  depraved  old  limmer !  But  what 
in  the  name  of  Old  Nick  made  you  choose 
me  out  of  the  whole  British  Army?' 

Mrs.  Dowey  giggles.  There  is  little 
doubt  that  in  her  youth  she  was  an  accom- 
plished flirt.  'Maybe,  mister,  it  was  be- 
cause I  liked  you  best.' 

'Now,  now,  woman.' 


32  THE  OLD  LADY 

'I  read  one  day  in  the  papers,  "In  which 
he  was  assisted  by  Private  K.  Dowey,  5th 
BattaHon,  Black  Watch.'" 

Private  K.  Dowey  is  flattered.  'Did 
you,  now !  Well,  I  expect  that 's  the  only 
time  I  was  ever  in  the  papers.' 

Mrs.  Dowey  tries  it  on  again.  'I  didn't 
choose  you  for  that  alone.  I  read  a  history 
of  the  Black  Watch  first,  to  make  sure  it 
was  the  best  regiment  in  the  world.' 

'Anybody  could  have  told  you  that.' 
He  is  moving  about  now  in  better  humour, 
and,  meeting  the  loaf  in  his  stride,  he  cuts 
a  slice  from  it.  He  is  hardly  aware  of  this, 
but  Mrs.  Dowey  knows.  '  I  like  the  Scotch 
voice  of  you,  woman.  It  drummles  on  like 
a  hill  burn.' 

'Prosen  Water  runs  by  where  I  was  born.' 
Flirting  again,  'May  be  it  teached  me  to 
speak,  mister.' 

'Canny,  woman,  canny.* 

*I  read  about  the  Black  Watch's  ghostly 
piper  that  plays  proudly  when  the  men  of 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  33 

the  Black  Watch  do  well,  and  prouder 
when  they  fall.' 

'There  's  some  foolish  story  of  that  kind.' 
He  has  another  careless  slice  off  the  loaf. 
*But  you  couldn't  have  been  living  here  at 
that  time  or  they  would  have  guessed.  I 
suppose  you  flitted  "^ ' 

'Yes,  it  cost  me  eleven  and  sixpence.' 

'How  did  you  guess  the  K  in  my  name 
stood  for  Kenneth  ? ' 

'Does  it?' 

'Umpha.' 

'An  angel  whispered  it  to  me  in  my  sleep.' 

'Well,  that 's  the  only  angel  in  the  whole 
black  business.'     He  chuckles. 

'  You  little  thought  I  would  turn  up ! ' 
Wheeling  suddenly  on  her.     '  Or  did  you  ? ' 

'I  was  beginning  to  weary  for  a  sight  of 
you,  Kenneth.' 

'  What  word  was  that  ? ' 

'Mister.' 

He  helps  himself  to  butter,  and  she  holds 
out  the  jam  pot  to  him,  but  he  haughtily 


34  THE   OLD   LADY 

rejects  it.  Do  you  think  she  gives  in  now  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it. 

He  returns  to  sarcasm.  *I  hope  you  're 
pleased  with  me  now  you  see  me.' 

'I  'm  very  pleased.  Does  your  folk  live 
in  Scotland  ? ' 

*  Glasgow.' 
'Both  living?' 
*Ay.' 

*Is  your  mother  terrible  proud  of  you  ?' 
'Naturally.' 

*  You  '11  be  going  to  them  ? ' 

'After  I  've  had  a  skite  in  London  first.' 
The  old  lady  sniffs.  '  So  she  is  in  London  ! ' 
'Who.?' 

'Your  young  lady.' 
'Are  you  jealyous  ? ' 
•    'Not  me.' 

'You  needna  be.     She  's  a  young  thing.' 
'You  surprises  me.    A  beauty,  no  doubt  ? ' 
'You  may  be  sure.'     He  tries  the  jam. 
'She  's  a  titled  person.     She  is  equally  pop- 
ular as  maid,  wife  and  munition-worker.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  35 

Mrs.  Dowey  remembers  Lady  Dol]\ 
Kanister,  so  familiar  to  readers  of  fashion- 
able gossip,  and  a  very  leery  expression  in- 
deed comes  into  her  face. 

'Tell  me  more  about  her,  man.' 

'She  has  sent  me  a  lot  of  things,  especially 
cakes,  and  a  worsted  waistcoat,  with  a  lov- 
ing message  on  the  enclosed  card.' 

The  old  lady  is  now  in  a  quiver  of  excite- 
ment. She  loses  control  of  her  arms,  which 
jump  excitedly  this  way  and  that. 

'  You  '11  try  one  of  my  cakes,  mister  .^ ' 

'Not  me.' 

'They  're  of  my  own  making.' 

'No,  I  thank  you.' 

But  with  a  funny  little  run  she  is  in  the 
pantry  and  back  again.  She  planks  down 
a  cake  before  him,  at  sight  of  which  he 
gapes. 

'What's  the  matter?  Tell  me,  oh,  tell 
me,  mister.' 

'That 's  exactly  the  kind  of  cake  that 
her  ladyship  sends  me.' 


36  THE  OLD  LADY 

Mrs.  Dowey  is  now  a  very  glorious  old 
character  indeed. 

'Is  the  waistcoat  right,  mister .f*  I  hope 
the  Black  Watch  colours  pleased  you.' 

'Wha— at!     Was  it  you?' 

'I  daredna  give  my  own  name,  you  see, 
and  I  was  always  reading  hers  in  the  papers.' 

The  badgered  man  looms  over  her,  terri- 
ble for  the  last  time. 

'  Woman,  is  there  no  getting  rid  of  you  ! ' 

*Are  you  angry?' 

He  sits  down  with  a  groan. 

'Oh,  hell !     Give  me  some  tea.' 

She  rushes  about  preparing  a  meal  for 
him,  every  bit  of  her  wanting  to  cry  out  to 
every  other  bit,  '  Oh,  glory,  glory,  glory ! ' 
For  a  moment  she  hovers  behind  his  chair. 
'Kenneth!'  she  murmurs.  'What?'  he 
asks,  no  longer  aware  that  she  is  taking  a 
liberty.  'Nothing,'  she  says,  'just  Ken- 
neth,' and  is  off  gleefully  for  the  tea-caddy. 
But  when  his  tea  is  poured  out,  and  he 
has  drunk  a  saucerful,  the  instinct  of  self- 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  37 

preservation  returns  to  him  between  two 
bites. 

'Don't  you  be  thinking,  missis,  for  one 
minute  that  you  have  got  me.' 

*No,  no.' 

On  that  understanding  he  unbends. 

*I  have  a  theatre  to-night,  followed  by  a 
randy-dandy.' 

'Oho!  Kenneth,  this  is  a  queer  first 
meeting ! ' 

*It  is,  w^oman,  oh,  it  is,'  guardedly,  'and 
it 's  also  a  last  meeting.' 

'Yes,  yes.' 

'  So  here  's  to  you — ^you  old  mop  and  pail. 
Ave  atque  vale.' 

'What's  that?' 

'That  means  Hail  and  Farewell.' 

*  Are  you  a  scholar  ? ' 

'Being  Scotch,  there  's  almost  nothing  I 
don't  know.' 

'WTiat  was  you  to  trade?' 

'Carter,  glazier,  orraman,  any  rough  jobs.' 

'You  're  a  proper  man  to  look  at.' 


38  THE  OLD  LADY 

'I  'm  generally  admired.' 

*She  's  an  enviable  woman.' 

*Who?' 

'Your  mother.' 

*Eh?  Oh,  that  was  just  protecting  my- 
self from  you.  I  have  neither  father  nor 
mother  nor  wife  nor  grandmama. '  Bitterly, 
*This  party  never  even  knew  who  his  proud 
parents  were.' 

'Is  that' — gleaming — 'is  that  true.^^' 

'It 's  gospel.' 

'  Heaven  be  praised  ! ' 

'  Eh  ?  None  of  that !  I  was  a  fool  to 
tell  you.  But  don't  think  you  can  take 
advantage  of  it.     Pass  the  cake.' 

'  I  daresay  it 's  true  we  '11  never  meet 
again,  Kenneth,  but — but  if  we  do,  I  won- 
der where  it  will  be  ? ' 

'Not  in  this  world.' 

'There  's  no  telling' — leering  ingratiat- 
ingly— 'It  might  be  at  Berlin.' 

'Tod,  if  I  ever  get  to  Berlin,  I  believe  I  '11 
find  you  there  waiting  for  me ! ' 

'With  a  cup  of  tea  for  you  in  my  hand.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  39 

*Yes,  and' — heartily — *very  good  tea 
too.' 

He  has  partaken  heavily,  he  is  now  in 
high  good  humour. 

'Kenneth,  we  could  come  back  by  Paris  !' 

'AH  the  ladies,'  slapping  his  knees,  'likes 
to  go  to  Paris.' 

'Oh,  Kenneth,  Kenneth,  if  just  once  be- 
fore I  die  I  could  be  fitted  for  a  Paris  gown 
with  dreamy  corsage  ! ' 

'You  're  all  alike,  old  covey.  We  have 
a  song  about  it.'     He  sings: 

'Mrs.  Gill  is  very  ill. 

Nothing  can  improve  her 
But  to  see  the  Tuileries 

And  waddle  through  the  Louvre.' 

No  song  ever  had  a  greater  success. 
Mrs.  Dowey  is  doubled  up  with  mirth. 
When  she  comes  to,  when  they  both  come 
to,  for  there  are  a  pair  of  them,  she  cries: 

'You  must  learn  me  that,'  and  off  she 
goes  in  song  also: 

'Mrs.  Dowey  's  very  ill, 

Nothing  can  improve  her.' 


40  THE  OLD  LADY 

*Stop  !'  cries  clever  Kenneth,  and  finishes 
the  verse: 

'But  dressed  up  in  a  Paris  gown 
To  waddle  through  the  Louvre.' 

They  fling  back  their  heads,  she  points 
at  him,  he  points  at  her.  She  says  ecstati- 
cally : 

'  Hairy  legs  ! ' 

A  mad  remark,  which  brings  him  to  his 
senses;  he  remembers  who  and  what  she  is. 

'Mind  your  manners!'  Rising,  'Well, 
thank  you  for  my  tea.     I  must  be  stepping.' 

Poor  Mrs.  Dowey,  he  is  putting  on  his 
kit. 

'Where  are  you  living?' 

He  sighs. 

'That 's  the  question.  But  there 's  a 
place  called  The  Hut,  where  some  of  the 
2nd  Battalion  are.  They  '11  take  me  in. 
Beggars,'  bitterly,  'can't  be  choosers.' 

'  Beggars  ? ' 

'I  've  never  been  here  before.     If  you 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  41 

knew' — a  shadow  coming  over  him — *what 
it  is  to  be  in  such  a  place  without  a  friend. 
I  was  crazy  with  glee,  when  I  got  my  leave, 
at  the  thought  of  seeing  London  at  last,  but 
after  wandering  its  streets  for  four  hours,  I 
would  almost  have  been  glad  to  be  back  in 
the  trenches.' 

'If  you  knew,'  he  has  said,  but  indeed 
the  old  lady  knows. 

*That  's  my  quandorum  too,  Kenneth.' 

He  nods  sympathetically. 

'I  'm  sorry  for  you,  you  poor  old  body,' 
shouldering  his  kit.  *But  I  see  no  way  out 
for  either  of  us.' 

A  cooing  voice  says,  *Do  you  not?' 

*Are  you  at  it  again !' 

She  knows  that  it  must  be  now  or  never. 
She  has  left  her  biggest  guns  for  the  end. 
In  her  excitement  she  is  rising  up  and  down 
on  her  toes. 

'Kenneth,  I  've  heard  that  the  thing  a 
man  on  leave  longs  for  more  than  anything 
else  is  a  bed  with  sheets,  and  a  bath.' 


42  THE  OLD  LADY 

*You  never  heard  anything  truer.' 

*Go  into  that  pantry,  Kenneth  Dowey, 
and  lift  the  dresser-top,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see.' 

He  goes.  There  is  an  awful  stillness. 
He  returns,  impressed. 

*It  's  a  kind  of  a  bath !' 

*You  could  do  yourself  there  pretty,  half 
at  a  time.' 

'Me?' 

*  There  's  a  woman  through  the  wall  that 
would  be  very  willing  to  give  me  a  shake- 
down till  your  leave  is  up.' 

He  snorts. 

*0h,  is  there!' 

She  has  not  got  him  yet,  but  there  is  still 
one  more  gun. 

'Kenneth,  look!' 

With  these  simple  words  she  lets  down 
the  bed.  She  says  no  more;  an  effect  like 
this  would  be  spoilt  by  language.  For- 
tunately he  is  not  made  of  stone.  He 
thrills. 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  43 

*My  word!  That's  the  dodge  we  need 
in  the  trenches.' 

*That  's  your  bed,  Kenneth.' 

*Mine?'  He  grins  at  her.  *Yoii  queer 
old  divert.  What  can  make  you  so  keen 
to  be  burdened  by  a  lump  like  me  ? ' 

'He!  he!  he!  he!' 

'I  tell  you,  I  'm  the  commonest  kind  of 
man.' 

*I  'm  just  the  commonest  kind  of  old 
wifie  myself.' 

*I  've  been  a  kick-about  all  my  life,  and 
I  'm  no  great  shakes  at  the  war.' 

'Yes,  you  are.  How  many  Germans 
have  you  killed  ? ' 

'Just  two  for  certain,  and  there  was  no 
glory  in  it.  It  was  just  because  they 
wanted  my  shirt.' 

'  Your  shirt  ? ' 

'Well,  they  said  it  was  their  shirt.' 

'Have  you  took  prisoners.^' 

'I  once  took  half  a  dozen,  but  that  was  a 
poor  affair  too.' 


44  THE  OLD  LADY 

*How  could  one  man  take  half  a  dozen?' 

*Just  in  the  usual  way.  I  surrounded 
them.' 

*  Kenneth,  you  're  just  my  ideal.' 

*You  're  easily  pleased.' 

He  turns  again  to  the  bed.  *Let  's  see 
how  the  thing  works.'  He  kneads  the  mat- 
tress with  his  fist,  and  the  result  is  so  satis- 
factory that  he  puts  down  his  kit. 

'Old  lady,  if  you  really  want  me,  I  '11 
bide.' 

'Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!' 

Her  joy  is  so  demonstrative  that  he  has 
to  drop  a  word  of  warning. 

'But,  mind  you,  I  don't  accept  you  as  a 
relation.  For  your  personal  glory,  you 
can  go  on  pretending  to  the  neighbours; 
but  the  best  I  can  say  for  you  is  that 
you  're  on  your  probation.  I  'm  a  cautious 
character,  and  we  must  see  how  you  '11  turn 
out.' 

'Yes,  Kenneth.' 

'And  now,  I  think,  for  that  bath.     My 


SHOWS   HER  MEDALS  45 

theatre  begins  at  six-thirty.  A  cove  I  met 
on  a  'bus  is  going  with  me.' 

She  is  a  httle  alarmed. 

*  You  're  sure  you  '11  come  back  ? ' 

*Yes,  yes,'  handsomely,  'I  leave  my  kit 
in  pledge.' 

'You  won't  liquor  up  too  freely,  Ken- 
neth?' 

'You  're  the  first,'  chuckling,  'to  care 
whether  I  do  or  not.'  Nothing  she  has 
said  has  pleased  the  lonely  man  so  much 
as  this.  'I  promise.  Tod,  I  'm  beginning 
to  look  forward  to  being  wakened  in  the 
morning  by  hearing  you  cry,  "Get  up,  you 
lazy  swine."  I  've  kind  of  envied  men  that 
had  womenfolk  with  the  right  to  say  that.' 

He  is  passing  to  the  bathroom  when  a 
diverting  notion  strikes  him. 

'What  is  it,  Kenneth.?' 

'The  theatre.  It  would  be  showier  if  I 
took  a  lady.' 

Mrs.  Dowey  feels  a  thumping  at  her 
breast. 


46  THE  OLD  LADY 

*  Kenneth,  tell  me  this  instant  what  you 
mean.     Don't  keep  me  on  the  jumps.' 

He  turns  her  round. 

'No,  it  couldn't  be  done.' 

'  Was  it  me  you  were  thinking  of  ? ' 

'Just  for  the  moment,'  regretfully,  'but 
you  have  no  style.' 

She  catches  hold  of  him  by  the  sleeve. 

'Not  in  this,  of  course.  But,  oh,  Ken- 
neth, if  you  saw  me  in  my  merino !  It 's 
laced  up  the  back  in  the  very  latest.' 

'Hum,'  doubtfully;   'but  let 's  see  it.' 

It  is  produced  from  a  drawer,  to  which 
the  old  lady  runs  with  almost  indecent 
haste.  The  connoisseur  examines  it  criti- 
cally. 

'Looks  none  so  bad.  Have  you  a  bit  of 
chiffon  for  the  neck  ^  It 's  not  bombs  nor 
Kaisers  nor  Tipperary  that  men  in  the 
trenches  think  of,  it 's  chiffon.' 

'I  swear  I  have,  Kenneth.  And  I  have 
a  bangle,  and  a  muff,  and  gloves.' 

'Ay,  ay.'    He  considers.    'Do  you  think 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  47 

you  could  give  your  face  less  of  a  homely 
look?' 

*l'm  sure  I  could.' 

'Then  you  can  have  a  try.  But,  mind 
you,  I  promise  nothing.  All  will  depend 
on  the  effect.' 

He  goes  into  the  pantry,  and  the  old 
lady  is  left  alone.  Not  alone,  for  she  is 
ringed  round  by  entrancing  hopes  and 
dreadful  fears.  They  beam  on  her  and 
jeer  at  her,  they  pull  her  this  way  and 
that;  with  difficulty  she  breaks  through 
them  and  rushes  to  her  pail,  hot  water, 
soap,  and  a  looking-glass.  Our  last  glimpse 
of  her  for  this  evening  shows  her  staring 
(not  discontentedly)  at  her  soft  old  face, 
licking  her  palm,  and  pressing  it  to  her 
hair.    Her  eyes  are  sparkling. 

One  evening  a  few  days  later  Mrs. 
Twymley  and  Mrs.  Mickleham  are  in  Mrs. 
Dowey's  house,  awaiting  that  lady's  re- 
turn   from    some    fashionable    dissipation. 


48  THE  OLD  LADY 

They  have  undoubtedly  been  discussing  the 
war,  for  the  first  words  we  catch  are: 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  *I  tell  you  flat,  Amelia,  I 
bows  no  knee  to  junkerdom.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  'Sitting  here  by  the  fire, 
you  and  me,  as  one  to  another,  what  do 
you  think  will  happen  after  the  wa,T?  Are 
we  to  go  back  to  being  as  we  were.'^' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  'Speaking  for  myself, 
Amelia,  not  me.  The  war  has  wakened  me 
up  to  a  understanding  of  my  own  impor- 
tance that  is  really  astonishing.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  *Same  here.  Instead  of 
being  the  poor  worms  the  like  of  you  and 
me  thought  we  was,  we  turns  out  to  be 
visible  departments  of  a  great  and  haughty 
empire.* 

They  are  well  under  weigh,  and  with  a 
little  luck  we  might  now  hear  their  views 
on  various  passing  problems  of  the  day, 
such  as  the  neglect  of  science  in  our  pub- 
lic schools.  But  in  comes  the  Haggerty 
Woman,  and  spoils  everything.     She  is  at- 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  49 

tired,  like  them,  in  her  best,  but  the  effect 

of  her  is  that  her  clothes  have  gone  out  for 

a  walk,  leaving  her  at  home. 
Mrs.  Mickleham,  with  deep  distaste,  *Here  's 

that  submarine  again.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman  cringes  to  them, 

but  gets  no  encouragement. 
The   Haggerty   Woman.      *  It  's   a   terrible 

war.' 
Mrs.  Twymley.    'Is  that  so.^^' 
The  Haggerty  Woman.     *I  wonder  what 

will  happen  when  it  ends  ? ' 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     'I  have  no  idea.' 

The  intruder  produces  her  handkerchief, 

but  does  not  use  it.    After  all,  she  is  in  her 

best. 
The  Haggerty  Woman.    *Are  they  not  back 

yet?' 

Perfect   ladies   must   reply   to   a   direct 

question. 
Mrs.  Mickleham.     *No,'  icily.     *We  have 

been  waiting  this  half  hour.     They  are  at 

the  theatre  again.' 


50  THE  OLD  LADY 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'You  tell  me!  I 
just  popped  in  with  an  insignificant  present 
for  him,  as  his  leave  is  up.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  'The  same  errand  brought 
us.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  *My  present  is 
cigarettes.* 

They  have  no  intention  of  telling  her 
what  their  presents  are,  but  the  secret  leaps 
from  them. 

Mrs.  Mickleham.     'So  is  mine.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.     'Mine  too.' 

Triumph  of  the  Haggerty  Woman.  But 
it  is  short-lived. 

Mrs.  Mickleham.    'Mine  has  gold  tips.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.    'So  has  mine.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman  need  not  say  a 
word.  You  have  only  to  look  at  her  to 
know  that  her  cigarettes  are  not  gold- 
tipped.  She  tries  to  brazen  it  out,  which 
is  so  often  a  mistake. 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'What  care  I? 
Mine  is  Exquisytos.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  51 

No  wonder  they  titter. 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  'Excuse  us,  Mrs.  Hag- 
gerty  (if  that 's  your  name),  but  the  word 
is  Exquiseetos.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'Much  obHged' 
(weeps) . 

Mrs.  Mickleham.    'I  think  I  heard  a  taxi.' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  'It  will  be  her  third  this 
week.' 

They  peer  through  the  blind.     They  are 
so  excited  that  rank  is  forgotten. 

The  Haggerty  Woman.    '  What  is  she  in  ? ' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  *A  new  astrakhan  jacket 
he  gave  her,  with  Venus  sleeves.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'Has  she  sold  her 
gabardine  coat  ? ' 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  '  Not  her !  She  has  them 
both  at  the  theatre,  warm  night  though  it 
is.  She  's  wearing  the  astrakhan,  and  carry- 
ing the  gabardine,  flung  careless-like  over 
her  arm.' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'I  saw  her  strutting 
about  with  him  yesterday,  looking  as  if 


52  THE  OLD  LADY 

she  thought  the  two  of  them  made  a  pro- 
cession.' 
Mrs.   Twymley.     *Hsh!'  peeping.     *  Strike 
me  dead,  if  she  's  not  coming  mincing  down 
the  stair,  hooked  on  his  arm ! ' 

Indeed  it  is  thus  that  Mrs.  Dowey  en- 
ters. Perhaps  she  had  seen  shadows  lurk- 
ing on  the  bHnd,  and  at  once  hooked  on  to 
Kenneth  to  impress  the  visitors.  She  is 
quite  capable  of  it. 

Now  we  see  what  Kenneth  saw  that  af- 
ternoon five  days  ago  when  he  emerged 
from  the  bathroom  and  found  the  old 
trembler  awaiting  his  inspection.  Here  are 
the  muff  and  the  gloves  and  the  chiffon, 
and  such  a  kind  old  bonnet  that  it  makes 
you  laugh  at  once;  I  don't  know  how  to 
describe  it,  but  it  is  trimmed  with  a  kiss, 
as  bonnets  should  be  when  the  wearer  is 
old  and  frail.  We  must  take  the  merino 
for  granted  until  she  steps  out  of  the  astra- 
khan. She  is  dressed  up  to  the  nines,  there 
is  no  doubt  about  it.    Yes,  but  is  her  face 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  53 

less  homely?  Above  all,  has  she  style? 
The  answer  is  in  a  stout  affirmative.  Ask 
Kenneth.  He  knows.  Many  a  time  he  has 
had  to  go  behind  a  door  to  roar  hilariously 
at  the  old  lady.  He  has  thought  of  her  as  a 
lark  to  tell  his  mates  about  by  and  by;  but 
for  some  reason  that  he  cannot  fathom,  he 
knows  now  that  he  will  never  do  that. 

Mrs.  Dowey.    'Kenneth,'  affecting  surprise, 
*  we  have  visitors  ! ' 

Dowey.    *Your  servant,  ladies.' 

He  is  no  longer  mud-caked  and  dour.  A 
very  smart  figure  is  this  Private  Dowey, 
and  he  winks  engagingly  at  the  visitors, 
like  one  who  knows  that  for  jolly  company 
you  cannot  easily  beat  charwomen.  The 
pleasantries  that  he  and  they  have  ex- 
changed this  week  !  The  sauce  he  has  given 
them.  The  wit  of  Mrs.  Mickleham's  re- 
torts. The  badinage  of  Mrs.  Twymley. 
The  neat  giggles  of  the  Haggerty  Woman. 
There  has  been  nothing  like  it  since  you 
took  the  countess  in  to  dinner. 


54  THE   OLD  LADY 

Mrs.    Twymley.      'We    should    apologise. 
We  're  not  meaning  to  stay.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.  'You  are  very  welcome. 
Just  wait ' — the  ostentation  of  this  ! — '  till  I 
get  out  of  my  astrakhan — and  my  muff — 
and  my  gloves — and'  (it  is  the  bonnet's 
turn  now)  'my  Excelsior.' 

At  last  we  see  her  in  the  merino  (a  tri- 
umph). 

Mrs.  Mickleham.  'You  've  given  her  a 
glory  time,  Mr.  Dowey.' 

Dowey.  'It 's  her  that  has  given  it  to  me, 
missis.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.  'Hey!  hey!  hey!  hey!  He 
just  pampers  me,'  waggling  her  fists.  'The 
Lord  forgive  us,  but  this  being  the  last 
night,  we  had  a  sit-down  supper  at  a  res- 
taurant!' Vehemently:  'I  swear  by  God 
that  we  had  champagny  wine.'  There  is  a 
dead  stillness,  and  she  knows  very  well 
what  it  means,  she  has  even  prepared  for 
it:  'And  to  them  as  doubts  my  word — 
here  's  the  cork.' 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  55 

She  places  the  cork,  in  its  lovely  gold 
drapery,  upon  the  table. 

Mrs.  Mickleham.    *I'm  sure!' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  'I  would  thank  you,  Mrs. 
Dowey,  not  to  say  a  word  against  my 
Alfred.' 

Mrs.  Dowey.     'Me!' 

Dowey.  'Come,  come,  ladies,'  in  the  mas- 
terful way  that  is  so  hard  for  women  to 
resist;  'if  you  say  another  word,  I  '11  kiss 
the  lot  of  you.' 

There  is  a  moment  of  pleased  confusion. 

Mrs.  Mickleham.    '  Really,  them  sodgers ! ' 

The  Haggerty  Woman.  'The  kilties  is  the 
worst ! ' 

Mrs.  Twymley.  'I  'm  sure,'  heartily,  'we 
don't  grudge  you  your  treats,  Mrs.  Dow- 
ey; and  sorry  we  are  that  this  is  the 
end.' 

Dowey.  'Yes,  it 's  the  end,'  with  a  troubled 
look  at  his  old  lady;  'I  must  be  off  in  ten 
minutes.' 

The  little  soul  is  too  gallant  to  break 


56  THE  OLD  LADY 

down  in  company.     She  hurries  into  the 

pantry  and  shuts  the  door. 
Mrs.   Mickleham.     *Poor  thing!     But  we 

must  run,  for  you  '11  be  having  some  last 

words  to  say  to  her.* 
DowEY.    *I  kept  her  out  long  on  purpose  so 

as  to  have  less  time  to  say  them  in.' 

He  more  than  half  wishes  that  he  could 

make  a  bolt  to  a  public-house. 
Mrs.  Twymley.     'It 's  the  best  way.'     In 

the  important  affairs  of  life  there  is  not 

much  that  any  one  can  teach  a  charwoman. 

*Just  a  mere  nothing,  to  wish  you  well,  Mr. 

Dowey.' 

All  three  present  him  with  the  cigarettes. 
Mrs.  Mickleham.    *A  scraping,  as  one  might 

say.' 
The  Haggerty  Woman.     'The  heart,'  enig- 
matically, 'is  warm  though  it  may  not  be 

gold-tipped.' 
Dowey.     'You  bricks !' 
The  Ladies.     'Good  luck,  cocky.' 
Dowey.    'The  same  to  you.    And  if  you  see 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  57 

a  sodger  man  up  there  in  a  kilt,  he  is  one 
that  is  going  back  with  me.  Tell  him  not 
to  come  down,  but — but  to  give  me  till  the 
last  minute,  and  then  to  w'histle.' 

It  is  quite  a  grave  man  who  is  left  alone, 
thinking  what  to  do  next.  He  tries  a  horse 
laugh,  but  that  proves  of  no  help.  He 
says  '  Hell ! '  to  himself,  but  it  is  equally  in- 
effective. Then  he  opens  the  pantry  door 
and  calls. 

'Old  lady.' 

She  comes  timidly  to  the  door,  her  hand 
up  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

'Is  it  time?' 

An  encouraging  voice  answers  her. 

*No,  no,  not  yet.  I  've  left  word  for 
Dixon  to  whistle  when  go  I  must.' 

'All  is  ended.' 

'Now,  then,  you  promised  to  be  gay.  We 
w^ere  to  help  one  another.' 

'Yes,  Kenneth.' 

'It 's  bad  for  me,  but  it 's  worse  for  you.' 

'The  men  have  medals  to  win,  you  see.' 


58  THE  OLD  LADY 

*The  women  have  their  medals,  too.'  He 
knows  she  Hkes  him  to  order  her  about,  so 
he  tries  it  again. 

'Come  here.  No,  I  '11  come  to  you.'  He 
stands  gaping  at  her  wonderingly.  He  has 
no  power  of  words,  nor  does  he  quite  know 
what  he  would  like  to  say.    *God !' 

'What  is  it,  Kenneth?' 

*You  're  a  woman.' 

*I  had  near  forgot  it.' 

He  wishes  he  was  at  the  station  with 
Dixon.  Dixon  is  sure  to  have  a  bottle  in 
his  pocket.  They  will  be  roaring  a  song 
presently.  But  in  the  meantime — there  is 
that  son  business.  Blethers,  the  whole 
thing,  of  course — or  mostly  blethers.  But 
it 's  the  way  to  please  her. 

*  Have  you  noticed  you  have  never  called 
me  son  ? ' 

'  Have  I  noticed  it !  I  was  feared,  Ken- 
neth.    You  said  I  was  on  probation.' 

*And  so  you  were.  Well,  the  proba- 
tion 's  ended.'    He  laughs  uncomfortably. 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  59 

*The  like  of  me !  But  if  you  want  me 
you  can  have  me.' 

'Kenneth,  will  I  do?' 

*  Woman,'  artfully  gay,  'don't  be  so  for- 
ward.    Wait  till  I  have  proposed.' 

'Propose  for  a  mother?' 

'What  for  no?'  In  the  grand  style, 
*Mrs.  Dowey,  you  queer  carl,  you  spunky 
tiddy,  have  I  your  permission  to  ask  you 
the  most  important  question  a  neglected 
orphan  can  ask  of  an  old  lady?' 

She  bubbles  with  mirth.  Who  could 
help  it,  the  man  has  such  a  way  with  him. 

'None  of  your  sauce,  Kenneth.' 

Tor  a  long  time,  Mrs.  Dowey,  you  can- 
not have  been  unaware  of  my  sonnish  feel- 
ings for  you.' 

'Wait  till  I  get  my  mop  to  you ! ' 

'And  if  you  're  not  willing  to  be  my 
mother,  I  swear  I  '11  never  ask  another.' 

The  old  divert  pulls  him  down  to  her 
and  strokes  his  hair. 

'Was  I  a  well-behaved  infant,  mother?' 


60  THE  OLD  LADY 

*Not  you,  sonny,  you  were  a  rampaging 
rogue.* 

'Was  I  slow  in  learning  to  walk?' 

'The  quickest  in  our  street.  He !  he ! 
he  ! '  She  starts  up.   '  Was  that  the  whistle  ? ' 

*No,  no.  See  here.  In  taking  me  over 
you  have,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  joined 
the  Black  Watch.' 

*I  like  to  think  that,  Kenneth.' 

'Then  you  must  behave  so  that  the  ghost 
piper  can  be  proud  of  you.  'Tion ! '  She 
stands  bravely  at  attention.  'That 's  the 
style.  Now  listen.  I  've  sent  in  your 
name  as  being  my  nearest  of  kin,  and  your 
allowance  will  be  coming  to  you  weekly  in 
the  usual  way.' 

'Hey!  hey!  hey!  Is  it  wicked,  Ken- 
neth.^' 

'I  '11  take  the  responsibility  for  it  in 
both  worlds.  You  see,  I  want  you  to  be 
safeguarded  in  case  anything  hap ' 

'Kenneth!' 

*  'Tion  !    Have  no  fear.     I  '11  come  back. 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  61 

covered  with  mud  and  medals.  Mind  you 
have  that  cup  of  tea  waiting  for  me.'  He 
is  listening  for  the  whistle.  He  pulls  her 
on  to  his  knee. 

'  Hey  !  hey  !  hey  !  hey  ! ' 

*What  fun  we  '11  have  writing  to  one 
another !    Real  letters  this  time ! ' 

*Yes.' 

*It  would  be  a  good  plan  if  you  began 
the  first  letter  as  soon  as  I  've  gone.' 

'I  will.' 

*I  hope  Lady  Dolly  will  go  on  sending  me 
cakes.' 

*You  may  be  sure.' 

He  ties  his  scarf  round  her  neck. 

*You  must  have  been  a  bonny  thing 
when  you  were  young.' 

'Away  with  you!' 

*That  scarf  sets  you  fine.' 

*Blue  was  always  my  colour.' 

The  whistle  sounds. 

'Old  lady,  you  are  what  Bhghty  means 
to  me  now.* 


62  THE  OLD  LADY 

She  hides  in  the  pantry  again.  She  is 
out  of  sight  to  us,  but  she  does  something 
that  makes  Private  Dowey  take  off  his 
bonnet.  Then  he  shoulders  his  equipment 
and  departs.  That  is  he  laughing  coarsely 
with  Dixon. 

We  have  one  last  glimpse  of  the  old  lady 
— a  month  or  two  after  Kenneth's  death 
in  action.  It  would  be  rosemary  to  us  to 
see  her  in  her  black  dress,  of  which  she  is 
very  proud;  but  let  us  rather  peep  at  her 
in  the  familiar  garments  that  make  a  third 
to  her  mop  and  pail.  It  is  early  morning, 
and  she  is  having  a  look  at  her  medals 
before  setting  off  on  the  daily  round.  They 
are  in  a  drawer,  with  the  scarf  covering 
them,  and  on  the  scarf  a  piece  of  lavender. 
First,  the  black  frock,  which  she  carries  in 
her  arms  like  a  baby.  Then  her  War  Sav- 
ings Certificates,  Kenneth's  bonnet,  a  thin 
packet  of  real  letters,  and  the  famous  cham- 
pagne cork.     She  kisses   the   letters,   but 


SHOWS  HER  MEDALS  63 

she  does  not  blub  over  them.  She  strokes 
the  dress,  and  waggles  her  head  over  the 
certificates  and  presses  the  bonnet  to  her 
cheeks,  and  rubs  the  tinsel  of  the  cork 
carefully  with  her  apron.  She  is  a  tremu- 
lous old  'un;  yet  she  exults,  for  she  owns 
all  these  things,  and  also  the  penny  flag  on 
her  breast.  She  puts  them  away  in  the 
drawer,  the  scarf  over  them,  the  lavender 
on  the  scarf.  Her  air  of  triumph  well  be- 
comes her.  She  lifts  the  pail  and  the  mop, 
and  slouches  off  gamely  to  the  day's  toil. 


THE    NEW    WORD 


THE   NEW   WORD* 

Any  room  nowadays  must  be  the  scene,  for 
any  father  and  any  son  are  the  dramatis  'per- 
sonam. We  could  pick  them  up  in  Mayfair,  in 
Tooting,  on  the  Veldt,  in  rectories  or  in  gro- 
cers' back  parlours,  dump  them  down  on  our 
toy  stage  and  tell  them  to  begin.  It  is  a 
great  gathering  to  choose  from,  but  our  needs 
are  small.  Let  the  company  shake  hands, 
and  all  go  away  but  two. 

The  two  who  have  remained  (it  is  discov- 
ered on  inquiry)  are  Mr.  Torrance  and  his 
boy;  so  let  us  make  use  of  them.  Torrance 
did  not  linger  in  order  to  be  chosen,  he  was 
anxious,  like  all  of  them,  to  be  off;  but  we 
recognised  him,  and  sternly  signed  to  him  to 
stay.  Not  that  we  knew  him  personally,  but 
the  fact  is,  we  remembered  him  (we  never  for- 
get a  face)  as  the  legal  person  who  reads  out 
the  names  of  the  jury  before  the  court  opens, 

♦Copyright,  1918.  by  J.  M.  Barrie. 
67 


68  THE  NEW  WORD 

and  who  brushes  aside  your  reasons  for  want- 
ing to  be  let  ofiF.  It  pleases  our  humour  to 
tell  Mr.  Torrance  that  we  cannot  let  him  off. 

He  does  not  look  so  formidable  as  when  last 
we  saw  him,  and  this  is  perhaps  owing  to  our 
no  longer  being  hunched  with  others  on  those 
unfeeling  benches.  It  is  not  because  he  is 
without  a  wig,  for  we  saw  him,  on  the  occa- 
sion to  which  we  are  so  guardedly  referring, 
both  in  a  wig  and  out  of  it;  he  passed  behind 
a  screen  without  it,  and  immediately  (as 
quickly  as  we  write)  popped  out  in  it,  giving 
it  a  finishing  touch  rather  like  the  butler's 
wriggle  to  his  coat  as  he  goes  to  the  door. 
There  are  the  two  kinds  of  learned  brothers, 
those  who  use  the  screen,  and  those  who  (so 
far  as  the  jury  knows)  sleep  in  their  wigs. 
The  latter  are  the  swells,  and  include  the 
judges;  whom,  however,  we  have  seen  in  the 
public  thoroughfares  without  their  wigs,  a 
horrible  sight  that  has  doubtless  led  many 
an  onlooker  to  crime. 

Mr.  Torrance,  then,  is  no  great  luminary; 


THE  NEW  WORD  09 

indeed,  when  we  accompany  him  to  his  house, 
as  we  must,  in  order  to  set  our  scene  properly, 
we  find  that  it  is  quite  a  suburban  affair,  only 
one  servant  kept,  and  her  niece  engaged  twice 
a  week  to  crawl  about  the  floors.  There  is 
no  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  so  the  family 
remain  on  after  dinner  in  the  dining-room, 
which  rather  gives  them  away.  There  is 
really  no  one  in  the  room  but  Roger.  That 
is  the  truth  of  it,  though  to  the  unseeing  eye 
all  the  family  are  there  except  Roger.  They 
consist  of  Mr.,  Mrs.,  and  Miss  Torrance. 
Mr.  Torrance  is  enjoying  his  evening  paper 
and  a  cigar,  and  every  line  of  him  is  insisting 
stubbornly  that  nothing  unusual  is  happen- 
ing in  the  house.  In  the  home  circle  (and 
now  that  we  think  of  it,  even  in  court)  he  has 
the  reputation  of  being  a  somewhat  sarcastic 
gentleman;  he  must  be  dogged,  too,  otherwise 
he  would  have  ceased  long  ago  to  be  sarcastic 
to  his  wife,  on  whom  wit  falls  like  pellets 
on  sandbags;  all  the  dents  they  make  are 
dimples. 


70  THE  NEW  WORD 

Mrs.  Torrance  is  at  present  exquisitely  em- 
ployed; she  is  listening  to  Roger's  step  over- 
head. You  know  what  a  delightful  step  the 
boy  has.  And  what  is  more  remarkable  is 
that  Emma  is  listening  to  it  too,  Emma  who 
is  seventeen,  and  who  has  been  trying  to 
keep  Roger  in  his  place  ever  since  he  first 
compelled  her  to  bowl  to  him.  Things  have 
come  to  a  pass  when  a  sister  so  openly  admits 
that  she  is  only  number  two  in  the  house. 

Remarks  well  worthy  of  being  recorded  fall 
from  these  two  ladies  as  they  gaze  upward. 
'I  think — didn't  I,  Emma?'  is  the  mother's 
contribution,  while  it  is  Emma  who  replies  in 
a  whisper,  '  No,  not  yet ! ' 

Mr.  Torrance  calmly  reads,  or  seems  to 
read,  for  it  is  not  possible  that  there  can  be 
anything  in  the  paper  as  good  as  this.  In- 
deed he  occasionally  casts  a  humorous  glance 
at  his  women-folk.  Perhaps  he  is  trying  to 
steady  them.  Let  us  hope  he  has  some  such 
good  reason  for  breaking  in  from  time  to  time 
on  their  entrancing  occupation. 


THE  NEW  WORD  71 

*  Listen  to  this,  dear.  It  is  very  impor- 
tant. The  paper  says,  upon  apparently 
good  authority,  that  love  laughs  at  lock- 
smiths.' 

His  wife  answers  without  lowering  her 
eyes.  *Did  you  speak,  John.?  I  am  lis- 
tening.' 

*Yes,  I  was  telling  you  that  the  Hidden 
Hand  has  at  last  been  discovered  in  a  tub 
in  Russell  Square.' 

'I  hear,  John.     How  thoughtful.' 

'And  so  they  must  have  been  made  of 
margarine,  my  love.' 

*I  shouldn't  wonder,  John.' 

*  Hence  the  name  Petrograd.' 
*0h,  was  that  the  reason?' 

*You  will  be  pleased  to  hear,  Ellen,  that 
the  honourable  gentleman  then  resumed 
his  seat.' 

*That  was  nice  of  him.' 

*As  I,'  good-naturedly,  *now  resume  mine, 
having  made  my  usual  impression.' 

*Yes,  John.' 


72  THE  NEW  WORD 

Emma  slips  upstairs  to  peep  through  a 
keyhole,  and  it  strikes  her  mother  that 
John  has  been  saying  something.  They  are 
on  too  good  terms  to  make  an  apology  nec- 
essary. She  observes  blandly,  *John,  I 
haven't  heard  a  word  you  said.* 

*I  'm  sure  you  haven't,  woman.' 

*I  can't  help  being  like  this,  John.' 

*Go  on  being  like  yourself,  dear.' 

'Am  I  foolish?' 

*Um.' 

*0h,  but,  John,  how  can  you  be  so  calm 
— with  him  up  there  .^' 

*He  has  been  up  there  a  good  deal,  you 
know,  since  we  presented  him  to  an  as- 
tounded world  nineteen  years  ago.' 

*But  he — he  is  not  going  to  be  up  there 
much  longer,  John.'  She  sits  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  so  openly  to  wheedle  him  that 
it  is  not  worth  his  while  to  smile.  Her 
voice  is  tremulous;  she  is  a  woman  who 
can  conceal  nothing.  'You  will  be  nice 
to  him — to-night — won't  you,  John?' 


THE   NEW  WORD  73 

Mr.  Torrance  is  a  little  pained.  *Do  I 
just  begin  to-night,  Ellen?' 

*0h  no,  no;  but  I  think  he  is  rather — shy 
of  you  at  times.' 

'That,'  he  says  a  little  wryly,  *is  because 
he  is  my  son,  Ellen.' 

*Yes — it 's  strange;  but — yes.' 

With  a  twinkle  that  is  not  all  humorous, 
*Did  it  ever  strike  you,  Ellen,  that  I  am  a 
bit — shy  of  him  ? ' 

She    is    indeed    surprised.     *0f    Rogie!' 

*I  suppose  it  is  because  I  am  his  father.' 

She  presumes  that  this  is  his  sarcasm 
again,  and  lets  it  pass  at  that.  It  reminds 
her  of  what  she  wants  to  say. 

'You  are  so  sarcastic,'  she  has  never 
quite  got  the  meaning  of  this  word,  'to 
Rogie  at  times.  Boys  don't  like  that, 
John.' 

'Is  that  so,  Ellen?' 

'Of  course  I  don't  mind  your  being  sar- 
castic to  me ' 

'Much  good,'  groaning,  'my  being  sar- 


74  THE  NEW  WORD 

castic  to  you !    You  are  so  seldom  aware 
of  it/ 

'I  am  not  asking  you  to  be  a  mother  to 
him,  John.' 

*  Thank  you,  my  dear.' 

She  does  not  know  that  he  is  sarcastic 
again.  'I  quite  understand  that  a  man 
can't  think  all  the  time  about  his  son  as  a 
mother  does.' 

'Can't  he,  Ellen.'*  What  makes  you  so 
sure  of  that  ? ' 

*I  mean  that  a  boy  naturally  goes  to  his 
mother  with  his  troubles  rather  than  to  his 
father.     Rogie  tells  me  everything.' 

Mr.  Torrance  is  stung.  *I  daresay  he 
might  tell  me  things  he  wouldn't  tell  you.' 

She  smiles  at  this.  It  is  very  probably 
sarcasm. 

*  I  want  you  to  be  serious  just  now.  Why 
not  show  more  warmth  to  him,  John  ? ' 

With  an  unspoken  sigh,  'It  would  terrify 
him,  Ellen.  Two  men  show  warmth  to 
each  other !     Shame,  woman  ! ' 


THE  NEW  WORD  15 

Two  men!'  indignantly.  'John,  he  is 
only  nineteen.' 

*That  's  all,'  patting  her  hand.  *  Ellen, 
it  is  the  great  age  to  be  to-day,  nineteen.' 

Emma  darts  in. 

'Mother,  he  has  unlocked  the  door !  He 
is  taking  a  last  look  at  himself  in  the  mirror 
before  coming  down  ! ' 

Having  made  the  great  announcement, 
she  is  off  again. 

*You  won't  be  sarcastic,  John.'^' 

*I  give  you  my  word — if  you  promise  not 
to  break  down.' 

Rashly,  'I  promise.'  She  hurries  to  the 
door  and  back  again.  *John,  I'll  contrive 
to  leave  you  and  him  alone  together  for  a 
little.' 

Mr.  Torrance  is  as  alarmed  as  if  the 
judge  had  looked  over  the  b^nch  and  asked 
where  he  was.  'For  God's  sake,  woman, 
don't  do  that !  Father  and  son !  He  '11 
bolt;  or  if  he  doesn't,  I  will.' 

Emma   Torrance   flings   open   the   door 


76  THE  NEW  WORD 

grandly,  and  we  learn  what  all  the  to-do  is 
about. 
Emma.  'Allow  me  to  introduce  2nd  Lieu- 
tenant Torrance  of  the  Royal  Sussex. 
Father — ^your  son ;  2nd  Lieutenant  Torrance 
— ^your  father.  Mother — your  little  Rogie.' 
Roger,  in  uniform,  walks  in,  strung  up 
for  the  occasion.  Or  the  uniform  comes 
forward  with  Roger  inside  it.  He  has  been 
a  very  ordinary  nice  boy  up  to  now,  dull 
at  his  'books';  by  an  effort  Mr.  Torrance 
had  sent  him  to  an  obscure  boarding-school, 
but  at  sixteen  it  was  evident  that  an  office 
was  the  proper  place  for  Roger.  Before 
the  war  broke  out  he  was  treasurer  of  the 
local  lawn  tennis  club,  and  his  golf  handi- 
cap was  seven;  he  carried  his  little  bag 
daily  to  and  from  the  city,  and  his  highest 
relaxation  was  giggling  with  girls  or  about 
them.  Socially  he  had  fallen  from  the 
standards  of  the  home;  even  now  that  he 
is  in  his  uniform  the  hasty  might  say  some- 
thing clever  about  'temporary  gentlemen.' 


THE  NEW  WORD  77 

But  there  are  great  ideas  buzzing  in  Roger's 
head,  which  would  never  have  been  there 
save  for  the  war.  At  present  he  is  chiefly 
conscious  of  his  clothes.  His  mother  em- 
braces him  with  cries  of  rapture,  while  Mr. 
Torrance  surveys  him  quizzically  over  the 
paper;  and  Emma,  rushing  to  the  piano, 
which  is  of  such  an  old-fashioned  kind  that 
it  can  also  be  used  as  a  sideboard,  plays 
'See  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes.' 

Roger,  in  an  agony,  'Mater,  do  stop  that 
chit  making  an  ass  of  me.' 

He  must  be  excused  for  his  'mater.' 
That  was  the  sort  of  school ;  and  his  mother 
is  rather  proud  of  the  phrase,  though  it 
sometimes  makes  his  father  wince. 

Mrs.  Torrance.  'Emma,  please,  don't.  But 
I  'm  sure  you  deserve  it,  my  darling. 
Doesn't  he,  John  ? ' 

Mr.  Torrance,  missing  his  chance,  'Hardly 
yet,  you  know.  Can't  be  exactly  a  con- 
quering hero  the  first  night  you  put  them 
on,  can  you,  Roger?' 


78  THE  NEW  WORD 

Roger,  hotly,  'Did  I  say  I  was?' 

Mrs.  Torrance.    *0h,  John  !   Do  turn  round, 

Rogie.     I  never  did — I  never  did!' 
Emma.     'Isn't  he  a  pet !' 
Roger.     'Shut  up,  Emma.' 
Mrs.    Torrance,    challenging    the    world, 

'Though  I  say  it  who  shouldn't — and  yet, 

why  shouldn't  I  ? ' 
Mr.  Torrance.     'In  any  case  you  will — so 

go  ahead,  "mater."' 
Mrs.  Torrance.     'I  knew  he  would  look 

splendid;  but  I — of  course  I  couldn't  know 

that  he  would  look  quite  so  splendid  as 

this.' 
Roger.    'I  know  I  look  a  bally  ass.    That  is 

why  I  was  such  a  time  in  coming  down.' 
Mr.  Torrance.    'We  thought  we  heard  you 

upstairs  strutting  about.' 
Mrs.  Torrance.    'John  !    Don't  mind  him, 

Rogie.' 
Roger,  haughtily,  'I  don't.' 
Mr.  Torrance.     'Oh!' 
Roger.    'But  I  wasn't  strutting.' 


THE  NEW  WORD  79 

Mrs.  Torrance.  'That  dreadful  sword ! 
No,  I  would  prefer  you  not  to  draw  it,  dear 
— not  till  necessity  makes  you.' 

Mr.  Torrance.  *  Come,  come,  Ellen ;  that 's 
rather  hard  lines  on  the  boy.  If  he  isn't 
to  draw  it  here,  where  is  he  to  draw  it.f^' 

Emma,  with  pride,  *At  the  Front,  father.' 

Mr.  Torrance.  'I  thought  they  left  them 
at  home  nowadays,  Roger?' 

Roger.  *Yes,  mater;  you  see,  they  are;  a  bit 
in  the  way.' 

Mrs.  Torrance,  foolishly,  *Not  when  you 
have  got  used  to  them.' 

Mr.  Torrance.  'That  isn't  what  Roger 
means.'     (His  son  glares.) 

Emma,  who,  though  she  has  not  formerly 
thought  much  of  Roger,  is  now  proud  to 
trot  by  his  side  and  will  henceforth  count 
the  salutes,  'I  know  what  he  means.  If 
you  carry  a  sword  the  snipers  know  you 
are  an  officer,  and  they  try  to  pick  you  off.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  '  It 's  no  wonder  they  are 
called  Huns.    Fancy  a  British  sniper  doing 


80  THE   NEW  WORD 

that!     Roger,   you   will   be   very   careful, 
won't  you,  in  the  trenches  ? ' 
Roger.    *  Honour  bright,  mater.' 
Mrs.  Torrance.    'Above  all,  don't  look  up.' 
Mr.  Torrance.     'The  trenches  ought  to  be 

so  deep  that  they  can't  look  up.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.    'What  a  good  idea,  John.' 

Roger.    'He  's  making  game  of  you,  mater.' 

Mrs.  Torrance,  unruffled,  'Is  he,  my  own.^ 

— very  likely.    Now  about  the  question  of 

provisions ' 

Roger.     'Oh,  lummy,  you  talk  as  if  I  was 
going  off  to-night !    I  mayn't  go  for  months 
and  months.' 
Mrs.  Torrance.     *I  know — and,  of  course, 
there  is  a  chance  that  you  may  not  be 
needed  at  all.' 
Roger,  poor  boy,  'None  of  that,  mater.' 
Mrs.  Torrance.    'There  is  something  I  want 
to  ask  you,  John — How  long  do  you  think 
the  war  is  likely  to  last.^'     Her  John  re- 
sumes his  paper.     'Rogie,  I  know  you  will 
laugh  at  me,  but  there  are  some  things  that 
I  could  not  help  getting  for  you.' 


THE  NEW  WORD  81 

Roger.  *  You  know,  you  have  knitted  enough 
things  already  to  fit  up  my  whole  platoon.' 

Mrs.  Torrance,  proud  almost  to  tears,  'His 
platoon.' 

Emma.  'Have  you  noticed  how  fine  all  the 
words  in  -oon  are  ?    Platoon  !    Dragoon  ! ' 

Mr.  Torrance.     'Spitoon!' 

Emma.  'Colonel  is  good,  but  rather  papaish; 
Major  is  nosey;  Admiral  of  the  Fleet  is 
scrumptious,  but  Marechal  de  France — 
that  is  the  best  of  all.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  'I  think  there  is  nothing 
so  nice  as  2nd  Lieutenant.'  Gulping,  'Lot 
of  little  boys.' 

Roger.     'Mater!' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  'I  mean,  just  think  of 
their  cold  feet.'  She  produces  many  par- 
cels and  displays  their  strange  contents. 
'Those  are  for  putting  inside  your  socks. 
Those  are  for  outside  your  socks.  I  am 
told  that  it  is  also  advisable  to  have  straw 
in  your  boots.' 

Mr.  Torrance.  'Have  you  got  him  some 
straw  ? ' 


82  THE  NEW  WORD 

Mrs.  Torrance.  *I  thought,  John,  he  could 
get  it  there.     But  if  you  think ' 


Roger.  '  He  's  making  fun  of  you  again, 
mater.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  *I  shouldn't  wonder.  Here 
are  some  overalls.  One  is  leather  and  one 
fur,  and  this  one  is  waterproof.  The  worst 
of  it  is  that  they  are  from  different  shops, 
and  each  says  that  the  others  keep  the 
damp  in,  or  draw  the  feet.  They  have 
such  odd  names,  too.  There  are  new  names 
for  everything  nowadays.  Vests  are  called 
cuirasses.    Are  you  laughing  at  me,  Rogie  ? ' 

Mr.  Torrance,  sharply,  *If  he  is  laughing, 
he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself.' 

Roger,  barking,  *Who  was  laughing.^' 

Mrs.  Torrance.     *John!' 

Emma  cuffs  her  father  playfully. 

Mr.  Torrance.  'All  very  well,  Emma,  but 
it 's  past  your  bedtime.' 

Emma,  indignantly,  'You  can't  expect  me  to 
sleep  on  a  night  like  this.' 

Mr.  Torrance.    'You  can  try/ 


THE  NEW  WORD  83 

Mrs.  Torrance.  *2nd  Lieutenant!  2nd 
Lieutenant ! ' 

Mr.  Torrance,  alarmed,  'Ellen,  don't  break 
down.     You  promised.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  'I  am  not  going  to  break 
down;  but — but  there  is  a  photograph  of 
Rogie  when  he  was  very  small ' 

Mr.  Torrance.     *  Go  to  bed ! ' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  *I  happen — to  have  it  in 
my  pocket ' 

Roger.     'Don't  bring  it  out,  mater.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.    'If  I  break  down,  John,  it 
won't  be  owing  to  the  picture  itself  so  much 
as  because  of  what  is  written  on  the  back.' 
She  produces  it  dolefully. 

Mr.  Torrance.  'Then  don't  look  at  the 
back.' 

He  takes  it  from  her. 

Mrs.  Torrance,  not  very  hopeful  of  herself, 
'But  I  know  what  is  written  on  the  back, 
"Roger  John  Torrance,  aged  two  years 
four  months,  and  thirty-three  pounds."  ' 

Mr.  Torrance.    'Correct.'    She  weeps  softly. 


84  THE  NEW  WORD 

*  There,  there,  woman.'     He  signs  implor- 
ingly to  Emma. 

Emma,  kissing  him,  *I  'm  going  to  by-by. 
'Night,  mammy.  'Night,  Rog. '  She  is  about 
to  offer  him  her  cheek,  then  salutes  instead, 
and  rushes  off,  with  Roger  in  pursuit. 

Mrs.  Torrance.  *  I  shall  leave  you  together, 
John.' 

Mr.  Torrance,  half  liking  it,  but  nervous, 

*  Do  you  think  it 's  wise  ? '    With  a  groan, 
*You  know  what  I  am.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  'Do  be  nice  to  him,  dear.' 
Roger's  return  finds  her  very  artful  in- 
deed.   'I  wonder  where  I  put  my  glasses .f^' 

Roger.     *I  'U  look  for  them.' 

Mrs.  Torrance.  *No,  I  remember  now. 
They  are  upstairs  in  such  a  funny  place 
that  I  must  go  myself.  Do  you  remember, 
Rogie,  that  I  hoped  they  would  reject  you 
on  account  of  your  eyes  ? ' 

Roger.     'I  suppose  you  couldn't  help  it.' 

Mrs.  Torrance,  beaming  on  her  husband, 
'  Did  you  believe  I  really  meant  it,  John  ? ' 


THE  NEW  WORD  85 

Mr.  Torrance,  curious,  *  Did  you^  Roger  ? ' 
Roger.    'Of  course.    Didn't  you,  father  ? ' 
Mr.  Torrance.    *No!    I  knew  the  old  lady 
better.' 

He  takes  her  hand. 
Mrs.  Torrance,  sweetly,  'I  shouldn't  have 
liked  it,  Rogie  dear.  I  '11  tell  you  some- 
thing. You  know  your  brother  Harry 
died  when  he  was  seven.  To  you,  I  sup- 
pose, it  is  as  if  he  had  never  been.  You 
were  barely  five. 
Roger.  'I  don't  remember  him,  mater.' 
Mrs.  Torrance.  *No — no.  But  I  do,  Rogie. 
He  would  be  twenty-one  now;  but  though 
you  and  Emma  grew  up  I  have  always  gone 
on  seeing  him  as  just  seven.  Always  till  the 
war  broke  out.  And  now  I  see  him  a  man 
of  twenty-one,  dressed  in  khaki,  fighting 
for  his  country,  same  as  you.  I  wouldn't 
have  had  one  of  you  stay  at  home,  though 
I  had  had  a  dozen.  That  is,  if  it  is  the 
noble  war  they  all  say  it  is.  I  'm  not 
clever,  Rogie,  I  have  to  take  it  on  trust. 


86  THE  NEW  WORD 

Surely  they  wouldn't  deceive  mothers. 
I  '11  get  my  glasses. 

She  goes  away,  leaving  the  father  and 
son  somewhat  moved.  It  is  Mr.  Torrance 
who  speaks  first,  gruffly. 

'Like  to  change  your  mother,  Roger?' 

The  answer  is  also  gruff.  *What  do  you 
think?' 

Then  silence  falls.  These  two  are  very 
conscious  of  being  together,  without  so 
much  as  the  tick  of  a  clock  to  help  them. 
The  father  clings  to  his  cigar,  sticks  his 
knife  into  it,  studies  the  leaf,  tries  crossing 
his  legs  another  way.  The  son  examines 
the  pictures  on  the  walls  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  them  before,  and  is  all  the  time  edging 
toward  the  door. 

Mr.  Torrance  wets  his  lips;  it  must  be 
now  or  never,  'Not  going,  Roger?' 

Roger  counts  the  chairs.  'Yes,  I 
thought ' 

'  Won't  you — sit  down  and — have  /  a 
chat?' 


THE   NEW   WORD  87 

Roger  is  bowled  over.  'A  what?  You 
and  me ! ' 

*WTiy  not?'  rather  truculently. 

*0h — oh,  all  right,'  sitting  uncomfor- 
tably. 

The  cigar  gets  several  more  stabs. 

"I  suppose  you  catch  an  early  train  to- 
morrow ? ' 

'The  5.20.  I  have  flag-signalling  at  half- 
past  six.' 

'Phew!    Hours  before  I  shall  be  up.' 

'I  suppose  so.' 

'Well,  you  needn't  dwell  on  it,  Roger.' 

Indignantly.  'I  didn't.'  He  starts  up. 
'Good-night,  father.' 

'Good-night.  Damn.  Come  back.  My 
fault.  Didn't  I  say  I  wanted  to  have  a 
chat  with  you  ? ' 

'I  thought  we  had  had  it.' 

Gloomingly,  'No  such  luck.' 

There  is  another  pause.  A  frightened 
ember  in  the  fire  makes  an  appeal  to  some 
one  to  say  something.    Mr.  Torrance  rises. 


88  THE   NEW  WORD 

It  is  now  he  who  is  casting  eyes  at  the 
door.     He  sits  again,  ashamed  of  himself. 

*I  Hke  your  uniform,  Roger,'  he  says 
pleasantly. 

Roger  wriggles.  'Haven't  you  made  fun 
of  me  enough  ? ' 

Sharply,  *I  'm  not  making  fun  of  you. 
Don't  you  see  I  'm  trying  to  tell  you  that 
I  'm  proud  of  you  ? ' 

Roger  is  at  last  aware  of  it,  with  a  sink- 
ing. He  appeals,  *Good  lord,  father,  you 
are  not  going  to  begin  now.' 

The  father  restrains  himself. 

'Do  you  remember,  Roger,  my  saying 
that  I  didn't  want  you  to  smoke  till  you 
were  twenty.^' 

'  Oh,  it 's  that,  is  it  ? '  Shutting  his 
mouth  tight,  'I  never  promised.' 

Almost  with  a  shout.  'It 's  not  that.' 
Then  kindly,  'Have  a  cigar,  my  boy.^^' 

'Me.?' 

A  rather  shaky  hand  passes  him  a  cigar 
case.    Roger  selects  from  it  and  lights  up 


THE  NEW  WORD  89 

nervously.  He  is  noAv  prepared  for  the 
worst. 

'Have  you  ever  wondered,  Roger,  what 
sort  of  a  fellow  I  am  ? ' 

Guardedly,  'Often.' 

Mr.  Torrance  casts  all  sense  of  decency  to 
the  winds ;  such  is  one  of  the  effects  of  war. 

'I  have  often  wondered  what  sort  of  fel- 
low you  are,  Roger.  We  have  both  been 
at  it  on  the  sly.  I  suppose  that  is  what 
makes  a  father  and  son  so  uncomfortable 
in  each  other's  presence.' 

Roger  is  not  yet  prepared  to  meet  him 
half-way,  but  he  casts  a  line. 

*Do  you  feel  the  creeps  when  you  are 
left  alone  with  me.''' 

'Mortally,  Roger.  My  first  instinct  is  to 
slip  away.' 

'So  is  mine,'  with  deep  feeling. 

'You  don't  say  so!'  with  such  surprise 
that  the  father  undoubtedly  goes  up  a  step 
in  the  son's  estimation.  'I  always  seem  to 
know  what  you  are  thinking,  Roger.' 


90  THE  NEW  WORD 

*Do  you?    Same  here.' 

*As  a  consequence  it  is  better,  it  is  right, 
it  is  only  decent  that  you  and  I  should 
be  very  chary  of  confidences  with  each 
other.* 

Roger  is  relieved.  *I  'm  dashed  glad  you 
see  it  in  that  way.' 

Oh,  quite.  And  yet,  Roger,  if  you  had 
to  answer  this  question  on  oath,  "Whom 
do  you  think  you  are  most  like  in  this 
world?"  I  don't  mean  superficially,  but 
deep  down  in  your  vitals,  what  would  you 
say  ?  Your  mother,  your  uncle,  one  of  your 
friends  on  the  golf  links  ? ' 

'No.' 

'Who?' 

Darkly,  'You.' 

'Just  how  I  feel.' 

There  is  such  true  sympathy  in  the 
manly  avowal  that  Roger  cannot  but  be 
brought  closer  to  his  father. 

'It 's  pretty  ghastly,  father.' 

'It  is.  I  don't  know  which  it  is  worse 
for.' 


THE   NEW  WORD  91 

They  consider  each  other  without  bitter- 
ness. 

'You  are  a  bit  of  a  wag  at  times,  Roger.' 

'You  soon  shut  me  up.' 

'I  have  heard  that  you  sparkle  more 
freely  in  my  absence.' 

'They  say  the  same  about  you.' 

'And  now  that  you  mention  it,  I  believe 
it  is  true;  and  yet,  isn't  it  a  bigger  satis- 
faction to  you  to  catch  me  relishing  your 
jokes  than  any  other  person?' 

Roger's  eyes  open  wide.  'How  did  you 
know  that.^' 

'Because  I  am  so  bucked  if  I  see  you 
relishing  mine.' 

*Are  you.'*'  Roger's  hold  on  the  certain 
things  in  life  are  slipping.  'You  don't 
show  it.' 

'That  is  because  of  our  awkward  relation- 
ship.' 

Roger  lapses  into  gloom.  'We  have  got 
to  go  through  with  it.' 

His  father  kicks  the  coals.  'There  's  no 
way  out.' 


92  THE  NEW  WORD 

*No.' 

'We  have,  as  it  were,  signed  a  compact, 
Roger,  never  to  let  on  that  we  care  for 
each  other.  As  gentlemen  we  must  stick 
to  it.' 

*  Yes.     What  are  you  getting  at,  father  ? ' 

*  There  is  a  war  on,  Roger.' 

*That  needn't  make  any  difference.* 

*Yes,  it  does.  Roger,  be  ready;  I  hate 
to  hit  you  without  warning.  I  'm  going  to 
cast  a  grenade  into  the  middle  of  you.  It 's 
this,  I  'm  fond  of  you,  my  boy.' 

Roger  squirms.  'Father,  if  any  one 
were  to  hear  you  ! ' 

'They  won't.  The  door  is  shut.  Amy  is 
gone  to  bed,  and  all  is  quiet  in  our  street. 
Won't  you — won't  you  say  something  civil 
to  me  in  return,  Roger?' 

Roger  looks  at  him  and  away  from  him. 
*I  sometimes — bragged  about  you  at  school.' 

Mr.  Torrance  is  absurdly  pleased.  'Did 
you.^     What  sort  of  things,  Roger  .f^' 

'I— I  forget.' 


THE  NEW  WORD  93 

*Come  on,  Roger.' 

*Is  this  fair,  father?* 

'No,  I  suppose  it  isn't.'  Mr.  Torrance 
attacks  the  coals  again.  *You  and  your 
mother  have  lots  of  confidences,  haven't 
you .? ' 


*I  tell  her  a  good  deal.     Somehow ' 

'Yes,  somehow  one  can.'  With  the  art- 
fulness that  comes  of  years,  'I  'm  glad  you 
tell  her  everything.' 

Roger  looks  down  his  cigar.  '  Not  every- 
thing, father.  There  are  things — about 
oneself ' 

'Aren't  there,  Roger!' 

'Best  not  to  tell  her.' 

'Yes — yes.  If  there  are  any  of  them 
you  would  care  to  tell  me  instead — just  if 
you  want  to,  mind — just  if  you  are  in  a 
hole  or  anything.^' 

'No  thanks,'  very  stiffly. 

'Any  little  debts,  for  instance?' 

'That 's  all  right  now.     Mother ' 

'She  did?' 


94  THE  NEW  WORD 

Roger  is  ready  to  jump  at  him.     'I  was 
willing  to  speak  to  you  about  them,  but ' 


'She  said,  "Not  worth  while  bothering 
father.'" 

*How  did  you  know.^^' 

*0h,  I  have  met  your  mother  before,  you 
see.     Nothing  else.f^' 

*No.' 

'Haven't  been  an  ass  about  a  girl  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort?' 

'Good  lord,  father!' 

*I  shouldn't  have  said  it.     In  my  young 

days  we  sometimes It 's  all  different 

now.' 

*I  don't  know.  I  could  tell  you  things 
that  would  surprise  you.' 

'No  !     Not  about  yourself.'^' 

'No.     At  least ' 

'Just  as  you  like,  Roger.' 

'It  blew  over  long  ago.' 

'Then  there  's  no  need.'^' 

'No — oh  no.  It  was  just — you  know — 
the  old,  old  story.' 


THE   NEW  WORD  95 

He  eyes  his  father  suspiciously,  but  not 
a  muscle  in  Mr.  Torrance's  countenance  is 
out  of  place. 

*I  see.  It  hasn't — left  you  bitter  about 
the  sex,  Roger,  I  hopcf^' 

'Not  now.  She — you  know  what  women 
are.' 

*Yes,  yes.' 

*You  needn't  mention  it  to  mother.' 

*I  won't.'  Mr.  Torrance  is  elated  to 
share  a  secret  with  Roger  about  which 
mother  is  not  to  know.  'Think  your 
mother  and  I  are  an  aged  pair,  Roger  ^ ' 

'I  never of  course  you  are  not  young.' 

'How  long  have  you  known  that.'*  I 
mean,  it 's  true — but  I  didn't  know  it  till 
quite  lately.' 

'That  you  're  old  ?' 

'Hang  it,  Roger,  not  so  bad  as  that — 
elderly.  This  will  stagger  you;  but  I  assure 
you  that  until  the  other  day  I  jogged  along 
thinking  of  myself  as  on  the  whole  still  one 
of  the  juveniles.'     He  makes  a  wry  face. 


96  THE  NEW  WORD 

'I  crossed  the  bridge,  Roger,  without  know- 
ing it.'    ' 

*  What  made  you  know  ? ' 

*What  makes  us  know  all  the  new  things, 
Roger  ? — the  war.  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret. 
When  we  realised  in  August  of  1914  that 
myriads  of  us  were  to  be  needed,  my  first 
thought  wasn't  that  I  had  a  son,  but  that 
I  must  get  fit  myseK.' 

*You!' 

'Funny,  isn't  it?'  says  Mr.  Torrance 
quite  nastily.  'But,  as  I  tell  you,  I  didn't 
know  I  had  ceased  to  be  young.  I  went 
into  Regent's  Park  and  tried  to  run  a  mile.' 

'Lummy,  you  might  have  killed  yourself.' 

'I  nearly  did — especially  as  I  had  put  a 
weight  on  my  shoulders  to  represent  my 
kit.  I  kept  at  it  for  a  week,  but  I  knew 
the  game  was  up.  The  discovery  was 
pretty  grim,  Roger.' 

'Don't  you  bother  about  that  part  of  it. 
You  are  doing  your  share,  taking  care  of 
mother  and  Emma.' 


THE   NEW  WORD  97 

Mr.  Torrance  eniits  a  laugh  of  self-con- 
tempt. '  I  am  not  taking  care  of  them.  It 
is  you  who  are  taking  care  of  them.  My 
friend,  you  are  the  head  of  the  house  now.' 

'Father!' 

'Yes,  we  have  come  back  to  hard  facts, 
and  the  defender  of  the  house  is  the  head 
of  it.' 

'Me?     Fudge.' 

'It 's  true.  The  thing  that  makes  me 
wince  most  is  that  some  of  my  contempo- 
raries have  managed  to  squeeze  back: 
back  into  youth,  Roger,  though  I  guess 
they  w^ere  a  pretty  tight  fit  in  the  turnstile. 
There  is  Coxon;  he  is  in  khaki  now,  with 
his  hair  dyed,  and  when  he  and  I  meet  at 
the  club  we  know  that  we  belong  to  dif- 
ferent generations.  I  'm  a  decent  old  fel- 
low, but  I  don't  really  count  any  more, 
while  Coxon,  lucky  dog,  is  being  damned 
daily  on  parade.' 

'I  hate  your  feeling  it  in  that  way,  father.' 

'  I  don't  say  it  is  a  palatable  draught,  but 


98  THE   NEW   WORD 

when  the  war  is  over  we  shall  all  shake 
down  to  the  new  conditions.  No  fear  of 
my  being  sarcastic  to  you  then,  Roger. 
I  '11  have  to  be  jolly  respectful.' 

'Shut  up,  father !' 

'You  've  begun,  you  see.  Don't  worry, 
Roger.  Any  rawness  I  might  feel  in  having 
missed  the  chance  of  seeing  whether  I  was 
a  man — like  Coxon,  confound  him  ! — is 
swallowed  up  in  the  pride  of  giving  the 
chance  to  you.     I  'm  in  a  shiver  about  you, 

but It 's  all  true,  Roger,  what  your 

mother  said  about  2nd  Lieutenants.  Till 
the  other  day  we  were  so  little  of  a  military 
nation  that  most  of  us  didn't  know  there 
were  2nd  Lieutenants.  And  now,  in  thou- 
sands of  homes  we  feel  that  there  is  noth- 
ing else.  2nd  Lieutenant !  It  is  like  a  new 
word  to  us — one,  I  daresay,  of  many  that 
the  war  will  add  to  our  language.  We 
have  taken  to  it,  Roger.  If  a  son  of  mine 
were  to  tarnish  it ' 

'I  '11  try  not  to,'  Roger  growls. 


THE   NEW   WORD  99 

*If  you  did,  I  should  just  know  that  there 
had  been  something  wrong  about  me.' 

Gruffly,  'You  're  all  right.' 

*If  I  am,  you  are.'  It  is  a  winning  face 
that  Mr.  Torrance  turns  on  his  son.  'I 
suppose  you  have  been  asking  yourself  of 
late,  what  if  you  were  to  turn  out  to  be  a 
funk!' 

'Father,  how  did  you  know?' 

*I  know  because  you  are  me.  Because 
ever  since  there  was  talk  of  this  commis- 
sion I  have  been  thinking  and  thinking 
what  were  you  thinking — so  as  to  help  you.' 

This  itself  is  a  help.  Roger's  hand — but 
he  withdraws  it  hurriedly. 

'They  all  seem  to  be  so  frightfully  brave, 
father,'  he  says  wistfully. 

'I  expect,  Roger,  that  the  best  of  them 
had  the  same  qualms  as  you  before  their 
first  engagement.' 

'I — I  kind  of  think,  father,  that  I  won't 
be  a  funk.' 

'I  kind   of  think  so  too,   Roger.'     Mr. 


100  THE  NEW  WORD 

Torrance  forgets  himself.  'Mind  you  don't 
be  rash,  my  boy;  and  for  God's  sake,  keep 
your  head  down  in  the  trenches.' 

Roger  has  caught  him  out.  He  points  a 
gay  finger  at  his  anxious  father. 

'You  know  you  laughed  at  mother  for 
saying  that ! ' 

'  Did  I  ?  Roger,  your  mother  thinks  that 
I  have  an  unfortunate  manner  with  you.' 

The  magnanimous  Roger  says,  'Oh,  I 
don't  know.  It 's  just  the  father-and-son 
complication.' 

*That  is  really  all  it  is.  But  she  thinks  I 
should  show  my  affection  for  you  more 
openly.' 

Roger  wriggles  again.  Earnestly,  *I 
wouldn't  do  that.'  Nicely,  'Of  course  for 
this  once — but  in  a  general  way  I  wouldn't 
do  that.     We  know,  you  and  I.' 

'As  long  as  we  know,  it 's  no  one  else's 
affair,  is  it.f^' 

'That 's  the  ticket,  father.' 

'Still '     It  is  to  be  feared  that  Mr. 


THE  NEW  WORD  101 

Torrance  is  now  taking  advantage  of  his 
superior  slyness.  'Still,  before  your  mother 
— to  please  her — eh  ? ' 

Faltering,  'I  suppose  it  would.' 

*Well,  what  do  you  say.^*' 

*I  know  she  would  like  it.* 

'Of  course  you  and  I  know  that  display 
of  that  sort  is  all  bunkum — repellent  even 
to  our  natures.' 

'  Lord,  yes  ! ' 

*But  to  gratify  her.' 

*I  should  be  so  conscious.' 

Mr.  Torrance  is  here  quite  as  sincere  as 
his  son.     'So  should  I.' 

Roger  considers  it.  'How  far  would  you 
go?' 

'Oh,  not  far.  Suppose  I  called  you  "Old 
Rogie".'^     There  's  not  much  in  that.' 

'  It  all  depends  on  the  way  one  says  these 
things.' 

'I  should  be  quite  casual.' 

'Hum.  What  would  you  like  me  to  call 
you.?' 


102  THE  NEW   WORD 

Severely,  *It  isn't  what  would  I  like. 
But  I  daresay  your  mother  would  beam  if 
you  called  me  "dear  father.'" 

*  I  don't  think  so?' 

*You  know  quite  well  that  you  think  so, 
Roger.' 

'It 's  so  effeminate.' 

*Not  if  you  say  it  casually.' 

With  something  very  like  a  snort  Roger 
asks,  *How  does  one  say  a  thing  like  that 
casually  ? ' 

*Well,  for  instance,  you  could  whistle 
while  you  said  it — or  anything  of  that  sort.' 

'Hum.  Of  course  you — if  we  were  to — 
be  like  that,  you  wouldn't  do  anything.' 

'  How  do  you  mean  } ' 

'You  wouldn't  paw  me?' 

'Roger,'  with  some  natural  indignation, 
'you  forget  yourself.'  But  apparently  it  is 
for  him  to  continue.  'That  reminds  me  of 
a  story  I  heard  the  other  day  of  a  French 
general.  He  had  asked  for  volunteers  from 
his   airmen   for   some   specially   dangerous 


THE   NEW  WORD  103 

job — and  they  all  stepped  forward.  Prettj^ 
good  that.  Then  three  were  chosen  and 
got  their  orders  and  saluted,  and  were 
starting  off  when  he  stopped  them.  "Since 
when,"  he  said,  "have  brave  boys  depart- 
ing to  the  post  of  danger  omitted  to  em- 
brace their  father  .f^"  They  did  it  then. 
Good  story  ? ' 

Roger  lowers.     'They  were  French.' 

*Yes,  I  said  so.  Don't  you  think  it 's 
good  ? ' 

*Why  do  you  tell  it  to  me.^^' 

*  Because  it  's  a  good  story.' 

*You  are  sure,  father,'  sternly,  *that 
there  is  no  other  reason.'^'  Mr.  Torrance 
tries  to  brazen  it  out,  but  he  looks  guilty. 
*You  know,  father,  that  is  barred.' 

Just  because  he  knows  that  he  has  been 
playing  it  low,  Mr.  Torrance  snaps  angrily, 
*What  is  barred?' 

*You  know,'  says  his  monitor. 

Mr.  Torrance  shouts. 

*I  know  that  you  are  a  young  ass.' 


104  THE   NEW  WORD 

*  Really,  father ' 

*Hold  your  tongue.' 
Roger  can  shout  also. 
*I  must  say,  father ' 


*Be  quiet,  I  tell  you.' 

It  is  in  the  middle  of  this  competition 
that  the  lady  who  dotes  on  them  both 
chooses  to  come  back,  still  without  her 
spectacles. 

'Oh  dear!    And  I  had  hoped Oh, 

John!' 

Mr.  Torrance  would  like  to  kick  himself. 
*My  fault,'  he  says  with  a  groan. 

*But  whatever  is  the  matter  .f^' 

'Nothing,  mater.'  The  war  is  already 
making  Roger  quite  smart.  'Only  father 
wouldn't  do  as  I  told  him.' 

Mr.  Torrance  cannot  keep  pace  with  his 
son's  growth.  He  raps  out,  'Why  the  dick- 
ens should  1?' 

Roger  is  imperturbable;  this  will  be  use- 
ful in  France.  'You  see,  mater,  he  said  I 
was  the  head  of  the  house.' 


THE   NEW  WORD  105 

*You,  Rogie!'  She  goes  to  her  hus- 
band's side.     *What  nonsense!' 

Roger  grins.  'Do  you  Hke  my  joke, 
father  ? ' 

The  father  smiles  upon  him  and  is  at 
once  uproariously  happy.  He  digs  his  boy 
boldly  in  the  ribs. 

'  Roger,  you  scoundrel ! ' 

'That 's  better,'  says  Mrs.  Torrance  at 
a  venture. 

Roger  feels  that  things  have  perhaps 
gone  far  enough.  'I  think  I  '11  go  to  my 
room  now.     You  will  come  up,  mater?' 

'Yes,  dear.  I  shan't  be  five  minutes, 
John.' 

'More  like  half  an  hour.' 

She  hesitates.  'There  is  nothing  wrong, 
is  there  ?     I  thought  I  noticed  a — a ' 

*A  certain  liveliness,  my  dear.  No,  we 
were  only  having  a  good  talk.' 

'  What  about,  John  ? '  wistfully. 

'About  the  war,'  Roger  breaks  in  hur- 
riedly. 


106  THE  NEW  WORD 

*  About  tactics  and  strategy,  wasn't  it, 
Roger  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'The  fact  is,  Ellen,  I  have  been  helping 
Roger  to  take  his  first  trench.'  With  a  big 
breath,  'And  we  took  it  too,  together, 
didn't  we,  Roger?' 

'You  bet,'  says  Roger  valiantly. 

'Though  I  suppose,'  sighing,  'it  is  one  of 
those  trenches  that  the  enemy  retake  dur- 
ing the  night.' 

'Oh,  I — I  don't  know,  father.' 

The  lady  asks,  'Whatever  are  you  two 
talking  about  ? ' 

'Aha,'  says  Mr.  Torrance  in  high  feather, 
patting  her,  but  unable  to  resist  a  slight 
boast,  'it  is  very  private.  We  don't  tell 
you  everything,  you  know,  Ellen.' 

She  beams,  though  she  does  not  under- 
stand. 

'  Come  on,  mater,  it 's  only  his  beastly 
sarcasm  again.  'Night,  father;  I  won't  see 
you  in  the  morning.' 


THE  NEW  WORD  107 

* 'Night,'  says  Mr.  Torrance. 

But  Roger  has  not  gone  yet.  He  seems 
to  be  looking  for  something — a  book,  per- 
haps.    Then  he  begins  to  whistle — casually. 

*  Good-night,  dear  father.' 

Mr.  John  Torrance  is  left  alone,  rubbing 
his  hands. 


BARBARA'S    WEDDING 


BARBARA'S    WEDDING* 

The  Colonel  is  in  the  sitting-room  of  his 
country  cottage,  staring  through  the  open 
windows  at  his  pretty  garden.  He  is  a  very 
old  man,  and  is  sometimes  bewildered  nowa- 
days. He  calls  to  Dering,  the  gardener,  who 
is  on  a  ladder,  pruning.  Dering,  who  comes 
to  him,  is  a  rough,  capable  young  fellow  with 
fingers  that  are  already  becoming  stumpy  be- 
cause he  so  often  uses  his  hands  instead  of  a 
spade.  This  is  a  sign  that  Dering  will  never 
get  on  in  the  world.  His  mind  is  in  the  same 
condition  as  his  fingers,  working  back  to 
clods.  He  will  get  a  rise  of  one  and  sixpence 
in  a  year  or  two,  and  marry  on  it  and  become 
duller  and  heavier;  and,  in  short,  the  clever 
ones  could  already  write  his  epitaph. 

'A  beautiful  morning,  Dering.' 

*Too  much  sun,  sir.     The  roses  be  com- 

*  Copyright,  1918,  by  J.  M.  Barrie. 
Ill 


112  BARBARA'S   WEDDING 

plaining,  and,  to  make  matters  v  orse.  Miss 
Barbara  has  been  watering  of  them — in  the 
heat  of  the  day.' 

The  Colonel  is  a  very  gentle  knight  now- 
adays. 'Has  she?  She  means  well.'  But 
that  is  not  what  is  troubling  him.  He  ap- 
proaches the  subject  diffidently.  'Dering, 
you  heard  it,  didn't  you?'  He  is  longing 
to  be  told  that  Dering  heard  it. 

'What  was  that,  sir?' 

'The  thunderstorm — early  this  morn- 
ing.' 

'There  was  no  thunderstorm,  sir.' 

Dispirited,  'That  is  what  they  all  say.' 
The  Colonel  is  too  courteous  to  contra- 
dict any  one,  but  he  tries  again;  there 
is  about  him  the  insistence  of  one  who 
knows  that  he  is  right.  'It  was  at  four 
o'clock.  I  got  up  and  looked  out  at  the 
window.  •  The  evening  primroses  were  very 
beautiful.' 

Dering  is  equally  dogged.  'I  don't  hold 
much  with  evening  primroses,  sir;  but  I 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  113 

was  out  and  about  at  four;  there  was  no 
thunderstorm.' 

The  Colonel  still  thinks  that  there  was  a 
thunderstorm,  but  he  wants  to  placate  Der- 
ing.  'I  suppose  I  just  thought  there  was 
one.  Perhaps  it  was  some  thunderstorm  of 
long  ago  that  I  heard.  They  do  come 
back,  you  know.' 

Heavily,  'Do  they,  sir.''' 

*I  am  glad  to  see  you  moving  about  in 
the  garden,  Dering,  with  everything  just  as 
usual.' 

There  is  a  cautious  slyness  about  this,  as 
if  the  Colonel  was  fishing  for  information; 
but  it  is  too  clever  for  Dering,  who  is  going 
with  a  'Thank  you,  sir.' 

'No,  don't  go.'  The  old  man  lowers  his 
voice  and  makes  a  confession  reluctantly, 
'I  am — a  little  troubled,  Dering.' 

Dering  knows  that  his  master  has  a  wan- 
dering mind,  and  he  answers  nicely,  'Ev- 
erything be  all  right,  sir.' 

'I  'm  glad  of  that,'  the  Colonel  says  with 


114  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

relief.  *It  is  pleasant  to  see  that  you  have 
come  back,  Dering.  Why  did  you  go  away 
for  such  a  long  time?' 

*Me,  sir?'  Dering  is  a  Httle  aggrieved. 
*I  haven't  had  a  day  off  since  Christ- 
mas.* 

*  Haven't  you.^    I  thought ' 

The  Colonel  tries  to  speak  casually,  but 
there  is  a  trembling  eagerness  in  his  voice. 
*Is  everything  just  as  usual,  Dering.?' 

'Yes,  sir.  There  never  were  a  place  as 
changed  less  than  this.' 

*That  's  true.'  The  Colonel  is  appeased. 
*  Thank  you,  Dering,  for  saying  that.'  But 
next  moment  he  has  lowered  his  voice 
again.  'Dering,  there  is  nothing  wrong,  is 
there  .5^  Is  anything  happening  that  I  am 
not  being  told  about  .'^^ 

*Not  that  I  know  of,  sir.' 

'That  is  what  they  all  say,  but — I  don't 
know.'  He  stares  at  his  old  sword  which  is 
hanging  on  the  wall.  'Dering,  I  feel  as  if  I 
was  needed  somewhere.    I  don't  know  where 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  115 

it  is.  No  one  will  tell  me.  Where  is  every 
one.^ 

'They  're  all  about,  sir.  There  's  a  cricket 
match  on  at  the  village  green.' 

'  Is  there  ? ' 

*If  the  wind  had  a  bit  of  south  in  it  you 
could  hear  their  voices.  You  were  a  bit  of 
a  nailer  at  cricket  yourself,  sir.' 

The  Colonel  sees  himself  standing  up  to 
fast  ones.  He  is  gleeful  over  his  reminis- 
cences. 

'Ninety-nine  against  Mallowfield,  and 
then  bowled  off  my  pads.  Biggest  score  I 
ever  made.  Mallowfield  wanted  to  add  one 
to  make  it  the  hundred,  but  I  wouldn't  let 
them.  I  was  pretty  good  at  steering  them 
through  the  slips,  Dering !  Do  you  re- 
member my  late  cut.f*  It  didn't  matter 
where  point  stood,  I  got  past  him.  You 
used  to  stand  at  point,  Dering.' 

'That  was  my  grandfather,  sir.  If  he 
was  to  be  believed,  he  used  to  snap  you 
regular  at  point.' 


116  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

The  Colonel  is  crestfallen,  but  he  has  a 
disarming  smile.  'Did  he?  I  daresay  he 
did.  I  can't  play  now,  but  I  like  to  watch 
it  still.'  He  becomes  troubled  again.  'Der- 
ing,  there  's  no  cricket  on  the  green  to-day. 
I  have  been  down  to  look.  I  don't  under- 
stand it,  Dering.  When  I  got  there  the 
green  was  all  dotted  with  them — it 's  the 
prettiest  sight  and  sound  in  England.  But 
as  I  watched  them  they  began  to  go  away, 
one  and  two  at  a  time;  they  weren't  given 
out,  you  know,  they  went  as  if  they  had 
been  called  away.  Some  of  the  little 
shavers  stayed  on — and  then  they  went 
off,  as  if  they  had  been  called  away  too. 
The  stumps  were  left  lying  about.  Why  is 
it?' 

*It  's  just  fancy,  sir,'  Dering  says  sooth- 
ingly. *I  saw  Master  Will  oiling  his  bat 
yesterday.' 

'  Did  you  ? '  avidly.  *  I  should  have  liked 
to  see  that.  I  have  often  oiled  their  bats 
for  them.     Careless  lads,  they  always  for- 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  117 

get.  Was  that  nice  German  boy  with 
him?' 

'Mr.  Karl?  Not  far  off,  sir.  He  was 
sitting  by  the  bank  of  the  stream  playing 
on  his  flute;  and  Miss  Barbara,  she  had 
climbed  one  of  my  apple-trees, — she  says 
they  are  your  trees.'    He  lowers. 

'They  are,  you  know,  Dering,'  the  Col- 
onel says  meekly. 

'Yes,  sir,  in  a  sense,'  brushing  the  spuri- 
ous argument  aside,  'but  I  don't  like  any 
of  you  to  meddle  with  them.  And  there 
she  sat,  pelting  the  two  of  them  with  green 
apples.' 

'  How  like  her  ! '  The  Colonel  shakes  his 
head  indulgently.  'I  don't  know  how  we 
are  to  make  a  demure  young  lady  of  her.' 

Dering  smirks.  'They  say  in  the  village, 
sir,  that  Master  Will  would  like  to  try.' 

To  the  Colonel  this  is  wit  of  a  high  order. 

'Ha  !  ha  !  he  is  just  a  colt  himself.'  But 
the  laughter  breaks  off.  He  seems  to  think 
that  he  will  get  the  truth  if  Dering  comes 


118  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

closer.  'Who  are  all  here  now,  Dering;  in 
the  house,  I  mean?  I  sometimes  forget. 
They  grow  old  so  quickly.  They  go  out  at 
one  door  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  come 
back  by  another,  tired  and  grey.  Haven't 
you  noticed  it.^^' 

*No,  sir.  The  only  visitors  staying  here 
are  Miss  Barbara  and  Mr.  Karl.  There  's 
just  them  and  yourselves,  sir,  you  and  the 
mistress  and  Master  Will.     That 's  all.' 

*  Yes,  that 's  all,'  his  master  says,  still  un- 
convinced.    'Who  is  the  soldier,  Dering .f^' 

'Soldier,  sir.f^  There  is  no  soldier  here 
except  yourself.' 

'Isn't  there .f^  There  was  a  nurse  with 
him.     Who  is  ill  .P' 

'No  one,  sir.  There's  no  nurse.'  Der- 
ing backs  away  from  the  old  man.  'Would 
you  like  me  to  call  the  mistress,  sir.^^' 

'No,  she  has  gone  down  to  the  village. 
She  told  me  why,  but  I  forget.  Miss  Bar- 
bara is  with  her.' 

'Miss  Barbara  is  down  by  the  stream,  sir.' 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  119 

*Is  she?  I  think  they  said  they  were 
going  to  a  wedding.'  With  an  old  man's 
curiosity,  'Who  is  being  married  to-day, 
Dering  ? ' 

*I  have  heard  of  no  wedding,  sir.  But 
here  is  Miss  Barbara.' 

It  is  perhaps  the  first  time  that  Dering 
has  been  glad  to  see  Miss  Barbara,  who 
romps  in,  a  merry  hoyden,  running  over 
with  animal  spirits. 

*  Here  's  the  tomboy ! '  the  Colonel  cries 
gaily. 

Barbara  looks  suspiciously  from  one  to 
the  other. 

'  Dering,  I  believe  you  are  complaining  to 
the  Colonel  about  my  watering  the  flowers 
at  the  wrong  time  of  day.' 

'Aha  !  Aha  ! '  The  Colonel  thinks  she  is 
even  wittier  than  Dering,  who  is  properly 
abashed. 

*I  did  just  mention  it,  miss.' 

'You  horrid!'  Barbara  shakes  her  mop 
of  hair  at  the  gardener.    'Dear,  don't  mind 


UO  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

him.  And  every  time  he  says  they  are 
his  flowers  and  his  apples,  you  tell  me, 
and  I  shall  say  to  his  face  that  they  are 
yours.* 

'The  courage  of  those  young  things!' 
says  the  happy  Colonel. 

Dering's  underlip  becomes  very  pro- 
nounced, but  he  goes  off  into  the  garden. 
Barbara  attempts  to  attend  to  the  Colonel's 
needs. 

'Let  me  make  you  comfy — the  way 
granny  does  it.' 

She  arranges  his  cushions  clumsily. 

'That  is  not  quite  the  way  she  does  it,' 
the  Colonel  says  softly.  'Do  you  call  her 
granny,  Barbara.'^' 

'She  asked  me  to — for  practice.'  Bar- 
bara is  curious.  'Don't  you  remember 
why  ? ' 

Of  course  the  Colonel  remembers. 

'I  know!    Billyboy.' 

'You  are  quick  to-day.  Now,  wait  till  I 
get  your  cane.' 


BARBARA'S   WEDDING  121 

*I  don't  need  my  cane  while  I  'm  sit- 
ting.' 

*You  look  so  beau'ful,  sitting  holding 
your  cane.'  She  knocks  over  his  cushions. 
*0h  dear !   I  am  a  clumsy.' 

Politely,  *Not  at  all,  but  perhaps  if  I 
were  to  do  it  for  myself.'  He  makes  him- 
self comfortable.  *That  's  better.  Thank 
you,  Barbara,  very  much.' 

7  didn't  do  it.  I  'm  all  thumbs.  What 
a  ghastly  nurse  I  should  make.' 

'  Nurse  .^'  The  Colonel's  troubles  return 
to  him.     'Who  is  she,  Barbara?' 

'Who  is  who,  dear?' 

'That  nurse.' 

'There  's  no  nurse  here.' 

'Isn't  there?' 

Barbara  feels  that  she  is  of  less  use  than 
ever  to-day.    '  Where  is  granny  ? ' 

'She  has  gone  down  to  the  village  to  a 
wedding.' 

'There 's  no  wedding.  Who  could  be 
being  married  ? ' 


122  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

*I  think  it 's  people  I  know,  but  I  can't 
remember  who  they  are.  I  thought  you 
went  too,  Barbara.' 

*Not  I.  Catch  me  missing  it  if  there 
had  been  a  wedding  ! ' 

*You  and  the  nurse.' 

*Dear,  you  have  just  been  imagining 
things  again.  Shall  I  play  to  you,  or 
sing  ? '  She  knocks  over  a  chair.  '  Oh  dear, 
everything  catches  in  me.  Would  you  like 
me  to  sing  "Robin  Adair,"  dear.'^' 

The  Colonel  is  polite,  but  firm.  *No, 
thank  you,  Barbara.'  For  a  few  moments 
he  forgets  her;  his  mind  has  gone  wander- 
ing again.  'Barbara,  the  house  seems  so 
empty.    Where  are  Billy  and  Karl.?' 

'Billy  is  where  Karl  is,  you  may  be  sure.' 

'And  where  is  Karl.?' 

'He  is  where  Billy  boy  is,  you  may  be 
sure.' 

'And  where  are  they  both.?' 

'Not  far  from  where  Barbara  is,  you 
bet.'    She  flutters  to  the  window  and  waves 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  123 

her  hand.  *Do  you  hear  Karl's  flute? 
They  have  been  down  all  the  morning  at 
the  pool  where  the  alder  is,  trying  to  catch 
that  bull-trout.' 

'They  didn't  get  him,  I  'II  swear!' 
'You  can  ask  them.' 

'I  spent  a  lot  of  my  youth  trying  to  get 
that  bull-trout.  I  tumbled  in  there  sixty 
years  ago.' 

*I   tumbled   in   sixty  minutes  ago!     It 
can't  be  the  same  trout,  dear.' 
'  Same  old  rascal  I ' 

Billy  and  Karl  come  in  by  the  window, 
leaving   a  fishing-rod   outside.     They   are 
gay,  careless,  attractive  youths. 
Barbara,   with  her  nose  in   the  air,   *You 

muddy  things ! ' 
Colonel,  gaily  firing  his  dart,  'Did  you  get 

the  bull-trout,  Billy  boy.'^' 
Billy.     'He  's  a  brute  that.' 
Colonel.    'He  is,  you  know.' 
Billy.    'He  came  up  several  times  and  had  a 
look  at  my  fly.    Didn't  flick  it,  or  do  any- 


124  BARBARA'S   WEDDING 

thing  as  complimentary  as  that.  Just 
yawned  and  went  down.' 

Colonel.  'Yawned,  did  he?  Used  to  wink 
in  my  time.  Did  you  and  Billy  fish  at 
Heidelberg,  Karl?' 

Karl.  'We  were  more  worthily  employed, 
sir,  but  we  did  unbend   at   times.    Billy, 

do  you  remember '     He  begins  a  gay 

dance. 

Billy.    'Not  I.'    Then  he  joins  in. 

Barbara.  'Young  gentlemen,  how  disgrace- 
ful !'     She  joins  in. 

Colonel.     '  Harum-scarums  ! ' 

Karl.    'Does  he  know  about  you  two?' 

Billy.  'He  often  forgets.  I  '11  tell  him 
again.  Grandfather,  Barbara  and  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you.  It 's  this.'  He 
puts  his  arm  round  Barbara. 

Colonel,  smiling,  'I  know — I  know.  There  's 
nothing  like  it.    I  'm  very  glad,  Barbara/ 

Barbara.  'You  see,  dear,  I  've  loved  Billy 
boy  since  the  days  when  he  tried  to  catch 
the  bull-trout  with  a  string  and  a  bent  pin, 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  125 

and  I  held  on  to  his  pinafore  to  prevent 
his  tumbling  in.  We  used  to  play  at  school 
at  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,  and 
the  girl  who  was  my  bridegroom  had  al- 
ways to  take  the  name  of  Billy.    "Do  you, 

woman,    take    this    man    Billy "    the 

clergyman  in  skirts  began,   and  before  I 
could  answer  diffidently,   some  other  girl 
was  sure  to  shout,  "I  should  rather  think 
she  does."  ' 
Colonel,  in  high  good  humour,  *  Don't  for- 
get the  ring,  Billy.    You  know,  when  I  was 
married  I  think  I  couldn't  find  the  ring ! ' 
Karl.     'Were  you  married  here,  sir?' 
Colonel.    'Yes,  at  the  village  church.' 
Billy.    'So  were  my  father  and  mother.' 
Colonel,  as  his  eyes  wander  to  the  garden, 
'I  remember  walking  back  with  my  wife 
and  bringing  her  in  here  through  the  win- 
dow.   She  kissed  some  of  the  furniture.' 
Billy.    'I  suppose  you  would  like  a  grander 

affair,  Barbara  ? ' 
Barbara.    'No,  just  the  same.' 


126  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

Billy.    'I  hoped  you  would  say  that.' 

Barbara.  'But,  Billy,  I  'm  to  have  such  a 
dream  of  a  wedding  gown.  Granny  is  go- 
ing with  me  to  London  to  choose  it' — lay- 
ing her  head  on  the  Colonel's  shoulder — 
'if  you  can  do  without  her  for  a  day,  dear.' 

Colonel,  gallantly,  'I  shall  go  with  you.  I 
couldn't  trust  you  and  granny  to  choose  the 
gown.' 

Karl.  'You  must  often  be  pretty  lonely, 
sir,  when  we  are  all  out  and  about  enjoying 
ourselves.' 

Colonel.  'They  all  say  that.  But  that  is 
the  time  when  I  'm  not  lonely,  Karl.  It 's 
then  I  see  things  most  clearly — the  past,  I 
suppose.  It  all  comes  crowding  back  to 
me — India,  the  Crimea,  India  again — and 
it 's  so  real,  especially  the  people.  They 
come  and  talk  to  me.  I  seem  to  see  them; 
I  don't  know  they  haven't  been  here, 
Billy,  till  your  granny  tells  me  afterwards.' 

Billy.  'Yes,  I  know.  I  wonder  where 
granny  is.' 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  127 

Barbara.     *It  isn't  often  she  leaves  you  for 

so  long,  dear.' 
Colonel.     'She  told  me  she  had  to  go  out, 

but  I  forget  where.    Oh,  yes,  she  has  gone 

down  to  the  village  to  a  wedding.' 
Billy.     *  A  wedding  ? ' 
Barbara.     *It  's  curious  how  he  harps  on 

that.' 
Colonel.     *She  said  to  me  to  listen  and  I 

would  hear  the  wedding  bells.' 
Barbara.     'Not  to-day,  dear.' 
Billy.     'Best  not  to  worry  him.' 
Barbara.     'But  granny  says  we  should  try 

to  make  things  clear  to  him.' 
Billy.     'Was  any  one  with  granny  when  she 

said  she  was  going  to  a  wedding  ? ' 
Colonel,  like  one  begging  her  to  admit  it, 

'You  were  there,  Barbara.' 
Barbara.     'No,  dear.     lie  said  that  to  me 

before.     And  something  about  a  nurse.' 
Colonel,  obstinately,  'She  was  there,  too.' 
Billy.     'Any  one  else?' 
Colonel.     'There  was  that  soldier.' 


128  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

Barbara.     *  A  soldier  also!'  i 

Colonel.     *Just  those  three.' 

Billy.  *But  that  makes  four.  Granny  and 
Barbara  and  a  nurse  and  a  soldier.' 

Colonel.  'They  were  all  there;  but  there 
were  only  three.' 

Billy.     'Odd.' 

Barbara,  soothingly,  'Never  mind,  dear. 
Granny  will  make  it  all  right.  She  is  the 
one  for  you.' 

Colonel.     'She  is  the  one  for  me.' 

Karl.  'If  there  had  been  a  wedding, 
wouldn't  she  have  taken  the  Colonel  with 
her?' 

Barbara.     'Of  course  she  would.' 

Karl.  'You  are  not  too  old  to  have  a  kind 
eye  for  a  wedding,  sir.' 

Colonel,  wagging  his  head,  'Aha,  aha !  You 
know,  if  I  had  gone,  very  likely  I  should 
have  kissed  the  bride.  Brides  look  so 
pretty  on  their  wedding  day.  They  are 
often  not  pretty  at  other  times,  but  they 
are  all  pretty  on  their  wedding  day.' 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  129 

Ka-RL.  'You  have  an  eye  for  a  pretty  girl 
still,  sir!' 

Colonel.     'Yes,  I  have;  yes,  I  have!' 

Barbara.  '  I  do  believe  I  see  it  all.  Granny 
has  been  talking  to  you  about  Billy  boy 
and  me,  and  you  haven't  been  able  to  wait; 
you  have  hurried  on  the  wedding ! ' 

Billy.     'Bravo,  Barbara,  you  've  got  it.' 

Colonel,  doubtfully,  'That  may  be  it.  Be- 
cause I  am  sure  you  were  to  be  there,  Bar- 
bara.' 

Barbara.     'Our  wedding,  Billy !' 

Karl.  'It  doesn't  explain  those  other  peo- 
ple, though.' 

The  Colonel  moves  about  in  agitation. 

Barbara.     'What  is  it,  dear.'*' 

Colonel.  'I  can't  quite  remember,  but  I 
think  that  is  why  she  didn't  take  me.  It 
is  your  wedding,  Barbara,  but  I  don't  think 
Billy  boy  is  to  be  there,  my  love.' 

Barbara.     '  Not  at  my  wedding ! ' 

Billy.     '  Grandfather  ! ' 

Colonel.     'There  's  something  sad  about  it.' 


130  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

Barbara.  *  There  can't  be  anything  sad 
about  a  wedding,  dear.  Granny  didn't  say 
it  was  a  sad  wedding,  did  she  ? ' 

Colonel.     *She  was  smihng.' 

Barbara.     *0f  course  she  was.' 

Colonel.  *But  I  think  that  was  only  to 
please  the  nurse.' 

Barbara.  *That  nurse  again !  Dear,  don't 
think  any  more  about  it.  There  's  no  wed- 
ding.' 

Colonel,  gently,  though  he  wonders  why  they 
can  go  on  deceiving  him,  '  Is  there  not  ? ' 

The  village  wedding  bells  begin  to  ring. 
The  Colonel  is  triumphant.  '  I  told  you ! 
There  is  a  wedding  ! ' 

The  bells  ring  on  gaily.  Billy  and  Bar- 
bara take  a  step  nearer  to  each  other,  but 
can  go  no  closer.  The  bells  ring  on,  and 
the  three  young  people  fade  from  the  scene. 
When  they  are  gone  and  he  is  alone,  the 
Colonel  still  addresses  them.  'It 's  Bar- 
bara's wedding.  Billy  boy,  why  are  you 
not  at  Barbara's  wedding  .f^' 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  131 

Soon  the  bells  stop.  He  knows  that  he 
is  alone  now,  but  he  does  not  understand 
it.  The  sun  is  shining  brightly,  but  he  sits 
very  cold  in  his  chair.  He  shivers.  He  is 
very  glad  to  see  his  wife  coming  to  him 
through  the  open  window.  She  is  a  dear 
old  lady,  and  is  dressed  brightly,  as  be- 
comes one  who  has  been  to  a  wedding. 
Her  face  beams  to  match  her  gown.  She 
is  really  quite  a  happy  woman  again,  for  it 
is  several  years  since  any  deep  sorrow 
struck  her;  and  that  is  a  long  time.  No 
one,  you  know,  understands  the  Colonel  as 
she  does,  no  one  can  soothe  him  and  bring 
him  out  of  his  imaginings  as  she  can.  He 
hastens  to  her.  He  is  no  longer  cold. 
That  is  her  great  reward  for  all  she  does 
for  him. 

*I  have  come  back,  John,'  she  says,  smil- 
ing tranquilly  on  him.  'It  hasn't  seemed 
very  long,  has  it.^*' 

'No,  not  long,  Ellen.  Had  you  a  nice 
walk  ? ' 


132         BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

She  continues  to  smile,  but  she  is  watch- 
ing him  closely.  *I  haven't  been  for  a 
walk.  Don't  you  remember  where  I  told 
you  I  was  going,  John  ? ' 

*Yes,  it  was  to  a  wedding.' 

Rather  tremulously,  'You  haven't  for- 
gotten whose  wedding,  have  you  ? ' 

'Tell  me,  Ellen.'  He  is  no  longer  troub- 
led.    He  knows  that  Ellen  will  tell  him. 

'I  have  been  seeing  Barbara  married, 
John.' 

'Yes,  it  was  Barbara's  wedding.  They 
wouldn't Ellen,  why  wasn't  I  there  ? ' 

Like  one  telling  him  amusing  gossip,  'I 
thought  you  might  be  a  little  troubled  if 
you  went,  John.  Sometimes  your  mind — 
not  often,  but  sometimes  if  you  are  agitated 
— and  then  you  think  you  see — ^people  who 
aren't  here  any  longer.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear, 
help  me  with  these  bonnet  strings.' 

'Yes,  I  know.  I  'm  all  right  when  you 
are  with  me,  Ellen.     Funny,  isn't  it.'^' 

She  raises  her  shoulders  in  a  laugh.     'It 


BARBARA'S  ^\^DDING  133 

^5  funny,  John.  I  ran  back  to  you,  John. 
I  was  thinking  of  you  all  the  time — even 
more  than  of  Billy  boy.* 

The  Colonel  is  very  gay.  *Tell  me  all 
about  it,  Ellen.  Did  Billy  boy  lose  the 
ring?  We  always  said  he  would  lose  the 
ring.' 

She  looks  straight  into  his  eyes.  *You 
have  forgotten  again,  John.  Barbara  isn't 
married  to  Billy  boy.' 

He  draws  himself  up.  *Not  marry  Billy  ! 
I  '11  see  about  that.' 

She  presses  him  into  his  chair.  *Sit 
down,  dear,  and  I  '11  tell  you  something 
again.  It  is  nothing  to  trouble  you,  be- 
cause your  soldiering  is  done,  John;  and 
greatly  done.  My  dear,  there  is  war  again, 
and  our  old  land  is  in  it.  Such  a  war  as 
my  soldier  never  knew.' 

He  rises.  He  is  a  stern  old  man.  *A 
war !  That 's  it,  is  it  .^  So  now  I  know  ! 
Why  wasn't  I  told.?  Why  haven't  I  my 
marching  orders  ?    I  'm  not  too  old  yet.' 


134  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

*Yes,  John,  you  are  too  old,  and  all  you 
can  do  now  is  to  sit  here  and — and  take 
care  of  me.  You  knew  all  about  it  quite 
clearly  this  morning.  We  stood  together 
upstairs  by  the  window  listening  to  the  air- 
craft guns.' 

*I  remember!  I  thought  it  was  a  thun- 
derstorm. Dering  told  me  he  heard  noth- 
ing.' 

'Dering.f*' 

*Our  gardener,  you  know.'  His  voice 
becomes  husky.  *  Haven't  I  been  talking 
with  him,  Ellen  ? ' 

*It  is  a  long  time  since  we  had  a  gar- 
dener, John.' 

*Is  it.f^  So  it  is!  A  war!  That  is  why 
there  is  no  more  cricket  on  the  green.' 

*They  have  all  gone  to  the  war,  John.' 

'That 's  it;  even  the  little  shavers.'  He 
whispers,  *Why  isn't  Billy  boy  fighting, 
EUen.?' 

*  Oh,  John!' 

'Is  Billy  boy  dead?'    She  nods.    /Was 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  135 

he  killed  in  action  ?  Tell  me,  tell  me ! ' 
She  nods  again.  'Good  for  Billy  boy.  I 
knew  Billy  boy  was  all  right.  Don't  cry, 
Ellen.  I  '11  take  care  of  you.  All 's  well 
with  Billy  boy.' 

*Yes,  I  know,  John.' 

He  hesitates  before  speaking  again. 
*  Ellen,  who  is  the  soldier.'^  He  comes  here. 
He  is  a  captain.' 

'He  is  a  very  gallant  man,  John.  It  is 
he  who  was  married  to  Barbara  to-day.' 

Bitterly,  'She  has  soon  forgotten.' 

His  wife  shakes  her  brave  head.  'She 
hasn't  forgotten,  dear.  And  it 's  nearly 
three  years  now  since  Billy  died.' 

*So  long!  We  have  a  medal  he  got, 
haven't  we  ? ' 

'No,  John;  he  died  before  he  could  win 
any  medals.' 

The  Colonel  moves  about,  'Karl  will  be 
sorry.  They  were  very  fond  of  each  other, 
those  two  boys,  Ellen.' 

'Karl  fought  against  us,  John.    He  died 


136  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

in  the  same  engagement.  They  may  even 
have  killed  each  other.' 

*They  hadn't  known,  Ellen.' 

She  says  with  thin  lips,  *I  daresay  they 
knew.' 

*Billy  boy  and  Karl!' 

She  tells  him  some  more  gossip.  'John, 
I  had  Barbara  married  from  here  because 
she  has  no  people  of  her  own.  I  think  Billy 
would  have  liked  it.' 

*That  was  the  thing  to  do,  Ellen.  Nice 
of  you.  I  remember  everything  now. 
It 's  Dering  she  has  married.  He  was  once 
my  gardener ! ' 

*The  world  is  all  being  re-made,  dear. 
He  is  worthy  of  her.' 

He  lets  this  pass.  He  has  remembered 
something  almost  as  surprising.  *  Ellen, 
is  Barbara  a  nurse  .f*' 

*Yes,  John,  and  one  of  the  staidest  and 
most  serene.  Who  would  have  thought  it 
of  the  merry  madcap  of  other  days !  They 
are  coming  here,  John,  to  say  good-bye  to 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  137 

you.  They  have  only  a  few  days'  leave. 
She  is  in  France,  too,  you  know.  She  was 
married  in  her  nurse's  uniform.' 

*  Was  she  ^  She  told  me  to-day  that — no, 
it  couldn't  have  been  to-daj^' 

*You  have  been  fancying  you  saw  them, 
I  suppose.'  She  grows  tremulous  again. 
*You  will  be  nice  to  them,  John,  won't 
you,  and  wish  them  luck.^^  They  have 
their  trials  before  them.' 

He  says  eagerly,  *Tell  me  what  to  do, 
Ellen.' 

*  Don't  say  anything  about  Billy  boy, 
John.' 

*No,  no,  let 's  pretend.' 

*And  I  wouldn't  talk  about  the  garden, 
John;  just  in  case  he  is  a  little  touchy  about 
that.' 

The  Colonel  is  beginning  to  fancy  him- 
self as  a  tactician.    *Not  a  word !' 

She  knows  what  is  the  way  to  put  him  on 
his  mettle.  *  You  see,  I  'm  sure  I  would  make 
a  mess  of  it,  so  I  'm  trusting  to  you,  John.' 


138  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

He  is  very  pleased.  *  Leave  it  all  to  me, 
Ellen.  I  '11  be  frightfully  sly.  You  just 
watch  me.* 

She  goes  to  the  window  and  calls  to  the 
married  couple.  Captain  Dering,  in  khaki, 
is  a  fine  soldierly  figure.  Barbara,  in  her 
Red  Cross  uniform,  is  quiet  and  resource- 
ful. An  artful  old  boy  greets  them.  'Con- 
gratulations, Barbara.  No,  no,  none  of 
your  handshaking;  you  don't  get  past  an 
old  soldier  in  that  way.  Excuse  me,  young 
man.'  He  kisses  Barbara  and  looks  at  his 
wife  to  make  sure  that  she  is  admiring 
him.  *And  to  you,  Captain  Dering — you 
have  won  a  prize.' 

A  gallant  gentleman  answers,  *I  know 
it;   I  '11  try  to  show  I  know  it.' 

The  Colonel  is  perturbed.  *I  haven't 
given  Barbara  a  wedding  present,  Ellen.  I 
should  like ' 

Barbara  breaks  in,  *  Indeed  you  have, 
dear,  and  a  lovely  one.  You  haven't  for- 
gotten ? ' 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  139 

Granny  signs  to  the  Colonel  and  he  im- 
mediately says,  with  remarkable  cunning, 
*0h — that!  I  was  just  quizzing  you,  Bar- 
bara.    I  hope  you  will  be  as  happy,  dear, 

staid  Barbara,  as  if  you  had  married ' 

He  sees  that  he  has  nearly  given  away  the 
situation.  He  looks  triumphantly  at  granny 
as  much  as  to  say,  'Observe  me;  I  'm  not 
going  to  say  a  word  about  him.' 

Granny  comes  to  his  aid.  'Perhaps  Cap- 
tain Dering  has  some  little  things  to  do: 
and  you,  too,  Barbara.  They  are  leaving 
in  an  hour,  John.' 

For  a  moment  the  Colonel  is  again  in 
danger.  'If  you  would  like  to  take  Bar- 
bara into  the  garden.  Captain  Dering ' 

He  recovers  himself  instantly.  'No,  not 
the  garden,  you  wouldn't  know  your  way 
about  in  the  garden.' 

'Wouldn't  I,  Colonel.^'  the  Captain  says, 
smiling. 

The  answer  is  quite  decisive.  *No,  cer- 
tainly not.     I  '11  show  it  you  some  day.' 


140  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

He  makes  gleeful  signs  to  granny.  *But 
there  is  a  nice  meadow  just  beyond  the 
shrubbery.     Barbara  knows  the  way;  she 

often    went    there    with '     He    checks 

himself.  Granny  signs  to  them  to  go,  and 
Barbara  kisses  both  the  Colonel's  hands. 
*The  Captain  will  be  jealous,  you  know,' 
he  says,  twinkling. 

'Let  me,  dear,'  says  Barbara,  arranging 
his  cushions  professionally. 

Granny  nods.  *She  is  much  better  at  it 
than  I  am  now,  John.' 

The  Colonel  has  one  last  piece  of  advice 
to  give.  *I  wouldn't  go  down  by  the 
stream,  Barbara — not  to  the  pool  where 
the  alder  is.  There  's — there  's  not  a  good 
view  there,  sir;  and  a  boy — a  boy  I  knew, 
he  often — nobody  in  particular — just  a  boy 
who  used  to  come  about  the  house — he  is 
not  here  now — he  is  on  duty.  I  don't 
think  you  should  go  to  the  alder  pool,  Bar- 
bara.' 

*We  won't  go  there,  dear.'     She  and  her 


BARBARA'S  WEDDING  141 

husband  go  out,  and  the  Colonel  scarcely 
misses  them,  he  is  so  eager  to  hear  what 
his  wife  thinks  of  him. 

*Did  I  do  all  right,  Ellen?' 

*  Splendidly.     I  was  proud  of  you.' 

He  exults.  *I  put  them  completely  off 
the  scent !  They  haven't  a  notion  !  I  can 
be  very  sly,  you  know,  at  times.  Ellen,  I 
think  I  should  like  to  have  that  alder  tree 
cut  down.     There  is  no  boy  now,  you  see.' 

*I  would  leave  it  alone,  John.  There  will 
be  boys  again.  Shall  I  read  to  you;  you 
like  that,  don't  you  ? ' 

*Yes,  read  to  me — something  funny,  if 
you  please.  About  Sam  Weller !  No,  I 
expect  Sam  has  gone  to  the  wars.  Read 
about  Mr.  Pickwick.  He  is  very  amusing. 
I  feel  sure  that  if  he  had  tried  to  catch  the 
bull-trout  he  would  have  fallen  in.  Just  as 
Barbara  did  this  morning.' 

*  Barbara  ? ' 

*She  is  down  at  the  alder  pool.  Billy  is 
there  with   that  nice  German   boy.     The 


142  BARBARA'S  WEDDING 

noise  they  make,  shouting  and  laughin^^ ' 


'fc> 


She  gets  from  its  shelf  the  best  book  for 
war-time.     '  Which  bit  shall  I  read  ? ' 

'About  Mr.  Pickwick  going  into  the 
lady's  bedroom  by  mistake.' 

*Yes,  dear,  though  you  almost  know  it 
by  heart.  You  see,  you  have  begun  to 
laugh  already.' 

*You  are  laughing  too,  Ellen.  I  can't 
help  it!' 

She  begins  to  read;  they  are  both  chuck- 
ling. 


A    WELL-REMEMBERED 
VOICE 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE* 

Out  of  the  darkness  comes  the  voice  of  a 
woman  speaking  to  her  dead  son. 

*But  that  was  against  your  wish,  was  it 
not?  Was  that  against  your  wish?  W^ould 
3^ou  prefer  me  not  to  ask  that  question  ? ' 

The  room  is  so  dark  that  we  cannot  see 
her.  All  we  know  is  that  she  is  one  of  four 
shapes  gathered  round  a  small  table.  Beyond 
the  darkness  is  a  great  ingle-nook,  in  which 
is  seated  on  a  settle  a  man  of  fifty.  Him  we 
can  discern  fitfully  by  the  light  of  the  fire. 
It  is  not  suflBciently  bright  to  enable  him  to 
read,  but  an  evening  paper  lies  on  his  knee. 
He  seems  wistful  and  meek.  He  is  paying  no 
attention  to  the  party  round  the  table.  Wlien 
he  hears  their  voices  it  is  only  as  empty  sounds. 

The  mother  continues.  'Perhaps  I  am 
putting  the  question  in  the  wrong  way.  Are 
you  not  able  to  tell  us  any  more  ?  * 

«  Copyright,  1918,  by  J.  M.  Barrie. 
145 


146    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

A  man's  voice  breaks  in.  *  There  was  a 
distinct  movement  that  time,  but  it  is  so 
irregular/ 

*I  thought  so,  but  please  don't  talk.  Do 
you  want  to  tell  us  more.^  Is  it  that  you 
can't  hear  me  distinctly  ?  He  seems  to  want 
to  tell  us  more,  but  something  prevents  him.' 

*In  any  case,  Mrs.  Don,  it  is  extraordinary. 
This  is  the  first  seance  I  have  ever  taken  part 
in,  but  I  must  believe  now.' 

*0f  course.  Major,  these  are  the  simplest 
manifestations.  They  are  only  the  first  step. 
But  if  we  are  to  go  on,  the  less  we  talk  the 
better.  Shall  we  go  on  ?  It  is  not  agitating 
you  too  much,  Laura?' 

A  girl  answers.  'There  was  a  moment 
when  I — but  I  wish  I  was  braver.  I  think  it 
is  partly  the  darkness.  I  suppose  we  can't 
have  a  little  light?' 

*  Certainly  we  can,  dear.  Darkness  is  quite 
unnecessary,  but  I  think  it  helps  one  to  con- 
centrate.' 

The  Major  lights  a  lamp,  and  though  it 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     147 

casts  shadows  we  see  now  that  the  room  is  an 
artist's  studio.  The  silent  figure  in  the  ingle- 
nook  is  the  artist.  Mrs.  Don  is  his  wife,  the 
two  men  are  INIajor  x\rmitage  and  an  older 
friend,  Mr.  Rogers.  The  girl  is  Laura  Bell. 
These  four  are  sitting  round  the  table,  their 
hands  touching:  they  are  endeavouring  to 
commune  with  one  who  has  'crossed  the 
gulf.' 

The  Major  and  Mr.  Rogers  are  but  passing 
shadows  in  the  play,  and  even  nice  Laura  is 
only  to  flit  across  its  few  pages  for  a  moment 
on  her  way  to  happier  things.  We  scarcely 
notice  them  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Don, 
the  gracious,  the  beautiful,  the  sympathetic, 
whose  magnetic  force  and  charm  are  such 
that  we  wish  to  sit  at  her  feet  at  once.  She 
is  intellectual,  but  with  a  disarming  smile, 
religious,  but  so  charitable,  masterful,  and 
yet  loved  of  all.  None  is  perfect,  and  there 
must  be  a  flaw  in  her  somewhere,  but  to  find 
it  would  necessitate  such  a  rummage  among 
her  many  adornments  as  there  is  now  no  time 


148    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

for.  Perhaps  we  may  come  upon  it  acciden- 
tally in  the  course  of  the  play. 

She  is  younger  than  Mr.  Don,  who,  despite 
her  efforts  for  many  years  to  cover  his  de- 
ficiencies, is  a  man  of  no  great  account  in  a 
household  where  the  bigger  personality  of  his 
wife  swallows  him  like  an  Aaron's  rod.  Mr. 
Don's  deficiencies !  She  used  to  try  very 
hard,  or  fairly  hard,  to  conceal  them  from 
Dick;  but  Dick  knew.  His  mother  was  his 
chum.  All  the  lovely  things  which  happened 
in  that  house  in  the  days  when  Dick  was 
alive  were  between  him  and  her;  those  two 
shut  the  door  softly  on  old  Don,  always 
anxious  not  to  hurt  his  feelings,  and  then 
ran  into  each  other's  arms. 

In  the  better  light  Mr.  Don  is  now  able  to 
read  his  paper  if  he  chooses.  If  he  has  for- 
gotten the  party  at  the  table,  they  have 
equally  forgotten  him. 

Mrs.  Don.  *You  have  not  gone  away,  have 
you.f^  We  must  be  patient.  Are  you  still 
there  .?^' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     149 

Rogers.    'I  think  I  felt  a  movement.' 
Mrs.  Don.     *  Don't  talk,  please.     Are  you 
still  there?' 

The  table  moves. 

*Yes !  It  is  your  mother  who  is  speak- 
ing; do  you  understand  that.'^' 

The  table  moves. 

'Yes.  \Miat  shall  I  ask  him  now?' 
Rogers.  'We  leave  it  to  you,  Mrs.  Don.' 
Mrs.  Don.  '  Have  you  any  message  you  want 
to  send  us?  Yes.  Is  it  important?  Yes. 
Are  we  to  spell  it  out  in  the  usual  way? 
Yes.  Is  the  first  letter  of  the  first  word 
A?     IsitB?' 

She  continues  through  the  alphabet  to 
L,  when  the  table  responds.  Similarly  she 
finds  that  the  second  letter  is  O. 

'Is  the  word  Love"^  Yes.  But  I  don't 
understand  that  movement.  You  are  not 
displeased  with  us,  are  you?  No.  Does 
the  second  word  begin  with  A.'* — with  B? 
Yes.' 

The  second  word  is  spelt  out  Bade  and 
the  third  Me. 


150    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

*Love  Bade  Me If  it  is  a  quotation, 

I  believe  I  know  it!     Is  the  fourth  word 
Welcome  ?     Yes.' 
Laura.     *Love  Bade  Me  Welcome.' 
Mrs.  Don.    *That  movement  again!    Don't 

you  want  me  to  go  on  ? ' 
Laura.     'Let  us  stop.' 

Mrs.  Don.  'Not  unless  he  wishes  it.  Why 
are  those  words  so  important  .^^  Does  the 
message  end  there  .^  Is  any  one  working 
against  you  ?  Some  one  antagonistic  ?  Yes. 
Not  one  of  ourselves  surely  .^^  No.  Is  it 
any  one  we  know.^  Yes.  Can  I  get  the 
name  in  the  usual  way.^^    Yes.    Is  the  first 

letter  of  this  person's  name  A  ? — B  ? ' 

It  proves  to  be  F.    One  begins  to  notice 
a  quaint  peculiarity  of  Mrs.  Don's.    She  is 
so  accustomed  to  homage  that  she  expects 
a  prompt  response  even  from  the  shades. 
'Is  the  second  letter  A?' 
The  table  moves. 

'FA.     Fa ?' 

She  is  suddenly  enlightened. 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     151 

*Is  the  word  Father?     Yes.' 
They  all  turn  and  look  for  the  first  time 
at   Mr.   Don.     He   has   heard,   and   rises 
apologetically. 

Mr.  Don,  distressed,  *I  had  no  intention 

Should  I  go  away,  Grace?' 

She  answers  sweetly  without  a  trace  of 
the  annoyance  she  must  surely  feel. 

Mrs.  Don.    'Perhaps  you  had  better,  Robert.' 

Rogers.  'I  suppose  it  is  because  he  is  an  un- 
believer ?  He  is  not  openly  antagonistic,  is 
he?' 

Mrs.  Don,  sadly  enough,  *I  am  afraid  he  is.' 
They  tend  to  discuss  the  criminal  as  if  he 
was  not  present. 

Major.  'But  he  must  admit  that  we  do  get 
messages.' 

Mrs.  Don,  reluctantly,  'He  says  we  think  we 
do.  He  says  they  would  not  want  to  com- 
municate with  us  if  they  had  such  trivial 
things  to  say.' 

Rogers.  'But  we  are  only  on  the  threshold, 
Don.     This  is  just  a  beginning.' 


152    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

Laura.  'Didn't  you  hear,  Mr.  Don — "Love 
Bade  Me  Welcome".?' 

Mr.  Don.  *Does  that  strike  you  as  impor- 
tant, Laura  ? ' 

Laura.     'He  said  it  was.' 

Mrs.  Don.  'It  might  be  very  important  to 
him,  though  we  don't  understand  why.' 

She  speaks  gently,  but  there  is  an  ob- 
stinacy in  him,  despite  his  meekness. 

Mr.  Don.  'I  didn't  mean  to  be  antagonistic, 
Grace.  I  thought.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  it 
at  all.' 

Mrs.  Don.  'Not  thinking  of  Dick,  Robert? 
And  it  was  only  five  months  ago ! ' 

Mr.  Don,  who  is  somehow,  without  meaning 
it,  always  in  the  wrong,  'I  '11  go.' 

Rogers.  'A  boy  wouldn't  turn  his  father 
out.     Ask  him.' 

Mr.  Don,  forlornly,  'As  to  that  —  as  to 
that ' 

Mrs.  Don.  'I  will  ask  him  if  you  wish  me 
to,  Robert.' 

Mr.  Don.    'No,  don't.' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     153 

Rogers.     'It  can't  worry  you  as  you  are  a 

disbeliever.' 
Mr.  Don.    'No,  but — I  shouldn't  like  you  to 

think  that  he  sent  me  away.' 
Rogers.    'He  won't.    Will  he,  Mrs.  Don?' 
Mr.  Don,  knowing  what  her  silence  implies, 

'You  see,  Dick  and  I  were  not  very — no 

quarrel  or  anything  of  that  sort — but  I,  I 

didn't  much  matter  to  Dick.    I  'm  too  old, 

perhaps.' 
Mrs.  Don,  gently,  'I  won't  ask  him,  Robert, 

if  you  would  prefer  me  not  to.' 
Mr.  Don.     'I '11  go.' 
Mrs.  Don.     'I  'm  afraid  it  is  too  late  now.' 

She  turns  away  from  earthly  things.     'Do 

you  want  me  to  break  ofiF?' 
The  table  moves. 
'Yes.    Do  you  send  me  your  love,  Dick.'' 

Yes.    And  to  Laura?    Yes.'    She  raises  her 

eyes  to  Don,  and  hesitates.     'Shall  I  ask 

him ?' 

Mr.  Don.    'No,  no,  don't.' 

Rogers.    'It  would  be  all  right,  Don.' 


154    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

Mr.  Don.     *I  don't  know.' 

They  leave  the  table. 
Laura,  a  little  agitated,  *May  I  go  to  my 

room,  Mrs.  Don?    I  feel  I — should  like  to 

be  alone.' 
Mrs.  Don.     *Yes,  yes,  Lam-a  dear.    I  shall 

come  in  and  see  you.' 

Laura  bids  them  good-night  and  goes. 

She  likes  Mr.  Don,  she  strokes  his  hand 

when  he  holds  it  out  to  her,  but  she  can't 

help   saying,   'Oh,   Mr.    Don,   how   could 

you.?' 
Rogers.     *I  think  we  must  all  want  to  be 

alone  after  such  an  evening.     I  shall  say 

good-night,  Mrs.  Don.' 
Major.    'Same  here.    I  go  your  way,  Rogers, 

but  you  will  find  me  a  silent  companion. 

One  doesn't  want  to  talk  ordinary  things 

to-night.     Rather  not.     Thanks,  awfully.' 
Rogers.     '  Good-night,    Don.     It 's   a  pity, 

you  know;  a  bit  hard  on  your  wife.' 
Mr.  Don.    '  Good-night,  Rogers.   Good-night, 

Major.' 


A  \\TLL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     155 

The  husband  and  wife,  left  together,  have 
not  much  to  say  to  each  other.  He  is  de- 
pressed because  he  has  spoilt  things  for  her. 
She  is  not  angry.  She  knows  that  he  can't 
help  being  as  he  is,  and  that  there  are  fine 
spaces  in  her  mind  where  his  thoughts  can 
never  walk  with  her.  But  she  would  for- 
give him  seventy  times  seven  because  he  is 
her  husband.  She  is  standing  looking  at  a 
case  of  fishing-rods  against  the  wall.  There 
is  a  Jock  Scott  still  sticking  in  one  of  them. 
Mr.  Don  says,  as  if  somehow  they  were 
evidence  against  him: 

'Dick's  fishing-rods.' 

She  says  forgivingly,  'I  hope  you  don't 
mind  my  keeping  them  in  the  studio,  Rob- 
ert.    They  are  sacred  things  to  we.' 

'That 's  all  right,  Grace.' 

*I  think  I  shall  go  to  Laura  now.' 

'Yes,'  in  his  inexpressive  way. 

*  Poor  child!' 

*I  'm  afraid  I  hurt  her.' 

'Dick  wouldn't  have  liked  it — ^but  Dick  's 


156    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

gone/  She  looks  a  little  wonderingly  at 
him.  After  all  these  years,  she  can  some- 
times wonder  a  little  still.  'I  suppose  you 
will  resume  your  evening  paper  ! ' 

He  answers  quietly,  but  with  the  noble 
doggedness  which  is  the  reason  why  we 
write  this  chapter  in  his  life.  'Why  not, 
Grace  ? ' 

She  considers,  for  she  is  so  sure  that  she 
must  know  the  answer  better  than  he.  *I 
suppose  it  is  just  that  a  son  is  so  much  more 
to  a  mother  than  to  a  father.' 

'I  daresay.' 

A  little  gust  of  passion  shakes  her.  '  How 
you  can  read  about  the  war  nowadays ! ' 

He  says  firmly  to  her — he  has  had  to  say 
it  a  good  many  times  to  himself,  'I  'm  not 
going  to  give  in.'  But  he  adds,  *I  am  so 
sorry  I  was  in  the  way,  Grace.  I  wasn't 
scouting  you,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  It 's 
just  that  I  can't  believe  in  it.' 

'Ah,  Robert,  you  would  believe  if  Dick 
had  been  to  you  what  he  was  to  me,' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     157 

*I  don't  know.' 

*In  a  sense  you  may  be  glad  that  you 
don't  miss  him  in  the  way  I  do.' 

*Yes,  perhaps.' 

'Good-night,  Robert.' 

*  Good-night,  dear.' 

He  is  alone  now.  He  stands  fingering 
the  fishing-rods  tenderly,  then  wanders 
back  into  the  ingle-nook.  In  the  room  we 
could  scarcely  see  him,  for  it  has  gone 
slowly  dark  there,  a  grey  darkness,  as  if 
the  lamp,  though  still  burning,  was  becom- 
ing unable  to  shed  light.  Through  the 
greyness  we  see  him  very  well  beyond  it  in 
the  glow  of  the  fire.  He  sits  on  the  settle 
and  tries  to  read  his  paper.  He  breaks 
down.     He  is  a  pitiful  lonely  man. 

In  the  silence  something  happens.  A 
well-remembered  voice  says,  'Father.'  Mr. 
Don  looks  into  the  greyness  from  which 
this  voice  comes,  and  he  sees  his  son.  We 
see  no  one,  but  we  are  to  understand 
that,  to  Mr.  Don,  Dick  is  standing  there 


158    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

in  his  habit  as  he  lived.  He  goes  to  his 
boy. 

*Dick!' 

*I  have  come  to  sit  with  you  for  a  bit, 
father.' 

It  is  the  gay,  young,  careless  voice. 

*It  's  you,  Dick;  it 's  you  !' 

*It  's  me  all  right,  father.  I  say,  don't 
be  startled,  or  anything  of  that  kind.  We 
don't  like  that.' 

*My  boy!' 

Evidently  Dick  is  the  taller,  for  Mr.  Don 
has  to  look  up  to  him.  He  puts  his  hands 
on  the  boy's  shoulders. 

*How  am  I  looking,  father.'^' 

*You  haven't  altered,  Dick.' 

*  Rather  not.  It 's  jolly  to  see  the  old 
studio  again !'  In  a  cajoling  voice,  'I  say, 
father,  don't  fuss.  Let  us  be  our  ordinary 
selves,  won't  you  ? ' 

*I  '11  try,  I  '11  try.  You  didn't  say  you 
had  come  to  sit  with  me,  Dick.''  Not  with 
meV 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     159 

'Rather!' 

'But  your  mother ' 

*It  's  you  I  want.' 

'Me?' 

*We  can  only  come  to  one,  you  se'e.' 

*Then  why  me?' 

*rhat  's  the  reason.'  He  is  evidently 
moving  about,  looking  curiously  at  old  ac- 
quaintances. *  Hello,  here  's  your  old  jacket, 
greasier  than  ever  ! ' 

'Me?  But,  Dick,  it  is  as  if  you  had  for- 
gotten. It  was  your  mother  who  was 
everything  to  you.  It  can't  be  you  if  you 
have  forgotten  that.  I  used  to  feel  so  out 
of  it;  but,  of  course,  you  didn't  know.' 

*I  didn't  know  it  till  lately,  father;  but 
heaps  of  things  that  I  didn't  know  once  are 
clear  to  me  now.  I  didn't  know  that  you 
were  the  one  who  would  miss  me  most;  but 
I  know  now.' 

Though  the  voice  is  as  boyish  as  ever, 
there  is  a  new  note  in  it  of  which  his  father 
is  aware.     Dick  may  not  have  grown  much 


160    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

wiser,  but  whatever  he  does  know  no\T  he 
seems  to  know  for  certain.  | 

*Me  miss  you  most?  Dick,  I  try  to 
paint  just  as  before.  I  go  to  the  club. 
Dick,  I  have  been  to  a  dinner-party.  1  said 
I  wouldn't  give  in.' 

*We  like  that.'  j 

*But,  my  boy '  / 

Mr.  Don's  arms  have  gone  out  to  him 
again.  Dick  evidently  wriggles  away  from 
them.     He  speaks  coaxingly. 

*I  say,  father,  let 's  get  away  from  that 
sort  of  thing.' 

*That  is  so  like  you,  Dick !  I  '11  do  any- 
thing you  ask.' 

*Then  keep  a  bright  face.' 

'I  've  tried  to.' 

*Good  man!  I  say,  put  on  your  old 
greasy;  you  are  looking  so  beastly  clean.' 

The  old  greasy  is  the  jacket,  and  Mr. 
Don  obediently  gets  into  it. 

'Anything  you  like.  No,  that 's  the 
wrong  sleeve.    Thanks,  Dick.' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     161 

They  are  in  the  ingle-nook  now,  and  the 
mischievous  boy  catches  his  father  by  the 
shoulders. 

*Here,  let  me  shove  you  into  your  old 
seat.' 

Mr.  Don  is  propelled  on  to  the  settle. 

'How  's  that,  umpire  !' 

'Dick,'  smiling,  *that  's  just  how  you 
used  to  butt  me  into  it  long  ago ! ' 

Dick  is  probably  standing  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  chuckling. 

'When  I  was  a  kid.' 

'With  the  palette  in  my  hand.' 

'Or  sticking  to  your  trousers.' 

'The  mess  we  made  of  ourselves,  Dick.' 

*I  sneaked  behind  the  settle  and  climbed 
up  it.' 

'Till  you  fell  off.' 

'On  top  of  you  and  the  palette.' 

It  is  good  fun  for  a  father  and  son;  and 
the  crafty  boy  has  succeeded  in  making 
the  father  laugh.     But  soon, 

'Ah,  Dick.' 


162    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

The  son  frowns.  He  is  not  going  to  stand 
any  nonsense. 

'Now  then,  behave!  What  did  I  say- 
about  that  face  ? ' 

Mr.  Don  smiles  at  once,  obediently. 

*That  's  better.     I  '11  sit  here.' 

We  see  from  his  father's  face  which  is 
smiling  with  difficulty  that  Dick  has  plopped 
into  the  big  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ingle-nook.  His  legs  are  probably  dangling 
over  one  of  its  arms. 

Rather  sharply,  '  Got  your  pipe  ? ' 

*I  don't — I  don't  seem  to  care  to  smoke 
nowadays,  Dick.' 

*Rot!  Just  because  I  am  dead!  You 
that  pretend  to  be  plucky !  I  won't  have 
it,  you  know.  You  get  your  pipe,  and  look 
slippy  about  it.' 

*Yes,  Dick,'  the  old  man  says  obedi- 
ently. He  fills  his  pipe  from  a  jar  on  the 
mantelshelf.  We  may  be  sure  that  Dick 
is  watching  closely  to  see  that  he  lights  it 
properly. 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     163 

*Now,  then,  burn  your  thumb  with  the 
match — you  always  did,  you  know.  That 's 
the  style.  You  Ve  forgotten  to  cock  your 
head  to  the  side.  Not  so  bad.  That 's 
you.     Like  it  ? ' 

'  It 's  rather  nice,  Dick.  Dick,  you  and 
me  by  the  fire  ! ' 

'Yes,  but  sit  still.  How  often  we  might 
have  been  like  this,  father,  and  weren't.' 

'Ah!' 

'Face.     How  is  Fido  ? ' 

'Never  a  dog  missed  her  master  more.' 

'Oh,'  frowning.  'She  doesn't  want  to  go 
and  sit  on  my  grave,  or  any  of  that  tosh, 
does  she  ?     As  if  I  were  there  ! ' 

'No,  no,'  hastily;  'she  goes  ratting, 
Dick.' 

'Good  old  Fido!' 

'Dick,  here  's  a  good  one.  We  oughtn't 
to  keep  a  dog  at  all  because  we  are  on  ra- 
tions now;  but  what  do  you  think  Fido 
ate  yesterday  ? ' 

'Let  me  guess.    The  joint  .'^' 


164    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

^Almost  worse  than  that.  She  ate  all 
the  cook's  meat  tickets.' 

They  laugh  together,  but  when  Dick 
says  light-heartedly,  'That  dog  will  be  the 
death  of  me,'  his  father  shivers.  Dick 
does  not  notice  this;  his  eyes  have  drawn 
him  to  the  fishing-rods. 

*Hullo!' 

*Yes,  those  are  your  old  fishing-rods.' 

*Here  's  the  little  hickory !  Do  you  re- 
member, father,  how  I  got  the  seven- 
pounder  on  a  burn-trout  cast?  No,  you 
weren't  there.  That  was  a  day.  It  was 
really  only  six  and  three-quarters.  I  put 
a  stone  in  its  mouth  the  second  time  we 
weighed  it ! ' 

*You  loved  fishing,  Dick.' 

*  Didn't  I?  Why  weren't  you  oftener 
with  me  ?  I  '11  tell  you  a  funny  thing 
When  I  went  a-soldiering  I  used  to  pray — 
just  standing  up,  you  know — that  I  should- 
n't lose  my  right  arm,  because  it  would  be 
so  awkward  for  casting.'     He  cogitates  as 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     165 

he  returns  to  the  ingle-nook.  *  Somehow  I 
never  thought  I  should  be  killed.  Lots  of 
fellows  thought  that  about  themselves,  but 
I  never  did.  It  was  quite  a  surprise  to 
me.' 

*0h,  Dick!' 

*What 's  the  matter.?  Oh,  I  forgot. 
Face ! '  He  is  apparently  looking  down  at 
his  father  wonderingly.  Haven't  you  got 
over  it  yet,  father.?  I  got  over  it  so  long 
ago.  I  wish  you  people  would  understand 
what  a  little  thing  it  is.' 

*Tell  me,'  very  humbly;  'tell  me,  Dick.' 

*A11  right.'  He  is  in  the  chair  again. 
*Mind,  I  can't  tell  you  where  I  was  killed; 
it 's  against  the  regulations.' 

*I  know  where.' 

Curiously,  *You  got  a  wire,  I  suppose.?' 

*Yes.' 

*  There  's  always  a  wire  for  officers,  even 
for  2nd  Lieutenants.  It 's  jolly  decent  of 
them.' 

'Tell  me,  Dick,  about  the — the  veil.     I 


166    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

mean  the  veil  that  is  drawn  between  the 
living  and  the ' 

'The  dead?  Funny  how  you  jib  at  that 
word.' 

*I  suppose  the  veil  is  like  a  mist?' 

*The  veil 's  a  rummy  thing,  father.  Yes, 
like  a  mist.  But  when  one  has  been  at  the 
Front  for  a  bit,  you  can't  think  how  thin 
the  veil  seems  to  get;  just  one  layer  of  it. 
I  suppose  it  seems  thin  to  you  out  there 
because  one  step  takes  you  through  it. 
We  sometimes  mix  up  those  who  have  gone 
through  with  those  who  haven't.  I  dare- 
say if  I  were  to  go  back  to  my  old  battalion 
the  living  chaps  would  just  nod  to  me.' 

*Dick!' 

'Where  's  that  pipe?  Death?  Well,  to 
me,  before  my  day  came,  it  was  like  some 
part  of  the  line  I  had  heard  a  lot  about 
but  never  been  in.  I  mean,  never  been  in 
to  stay,  because,  of  course,  one  often 
popped  in  and  out.' 

'Dick,  the  day  that  you ' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     167 

*My  day?  I  don't  remember  being  hit, 
you  know.  I  don't  remember  anything  till 
the  quietness  came.  When  you  have  been 
killed  it  suddenly  becomes  very  quiet; 
quieter  even  than  you  have  ever  known  it 
at  home.  Sunday  used  to  be  a  pretty 
quiet  day  at  my  tutor's,  when  Trotter  and 
I  flattened  out  on  the  first  shady  spot  up 
the  river;  but  it  is  quieter  than  that.  I 
am  not  boring  you,  am  I?* 

*Myboy!' 

*When  I  came  to,  the  veil  was  so  thin 
that  I  couldn't  see  it  at  all;  and  my  first 
thought  was,  Which  side  of  it  have  I  come 
out  on?  The  living  ones  lying  on  the 
ground  were  asking  that  about  themselves, 
too.  There  we  were,  all  sitting  up  and 
asking  whether  we  were  alive  or  dead;  and 
some  were  one,  and  some  were  the  other. 
Sort  of  fluke,  you  know.' 

*I— I— oh,  Dick!' 

*As  soon  as  each  had  found  out  about 
himself  he  wondered  how  it  had  gone  with 


168    A  WELI^REMEMBERED  VOICE 

his  chums.  I  halloo'd  to  Johnny  Randall, 
and  he  halloo'd  back  that  he  was  dead,  but 
that  Trotter  was  living.  That 's  the  way 
of  it.  A  good  deal  of  chaff,  of  course.  By 
that  time  the  veil  was  there,  and  getting 
thicker,  and  we  lined  up  on  our  right  sides. 
Then  I  could  only  see  the  living  ones  in 
shadow  and  hear  their  voices  from  a  dis- 
tance. They  sang  out  to  us  for  a  while; 
but  just  at  first,  father,  it  was  rather  lonely 
when  we  couldn't  hear  their  tread  any 
longer.  What  are  you  fidgeting  about  .'^ 
You  needn't  worry;  that  didn't  last  long; 
we  were  heaps  more  interested  in  ourselves 
than  in  them.  You  should  have  heard  the 
gabbling!  It  was  all  so  frightfully  novel, 
you  see;  and  no  one  quite  knew  what  to  do 
next,  whether  all  to  start  off  together,  or 
wait  for  some  one  to  come  for  us.  I  say, 
what  a  lot  I  'm  talking ! ' 

*What  happened,  Dick.?' 

*0h !'  a  proud  ring  coming  into  the  voice, 
'Ockley  came  for  us.     He  used  to  be  alive. 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE    169 

you  know — the  Ockley  who  was  keeper  of 
the  fives  in  my  first  half.  I  once  pointed 
him  out  to  mother.  I  was  jolly  glad  he 
was  the  one  who  came  for  us.  As  soon  as 
I  saw  it  was  Ockley  I  knew  we  should  be 
all  right.' 

*Dick,  I  like  that  Ockley.' 

*  Rather.  I  wish  I  could  remember  some- 
thing funny  to  tell  you  though.  There  are 
lots  of  jokes,  but  I  am  such  a  one  for  for- 
getting them.' 

He  laughs  boisterously.  We  may  be 
sure  that  he  flings  back  his  head.  You  re- 
member how  Dick  used  to  fling  back  his 
head  when  he  laughed? — No,  you  didn't 
know  him. 

'Father,  do  you  remember  little  Wantage 
who  was  at  my  private  and  came  on  to 
Ridley's  house  in  my  third  half.'^  His 
mother  was  the  one  you  called  Emily.' 

*  Emily  Wantage's  boy.' 

*That  's  the  card.  We  used  to  call  him 
Jemima,  because  he  and  his  mother  were 


170    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

both  caught  crying  when  lock-up  struck, 
and  she  had  to  clear  out.' 

*She  was  very  fond  of  him,  Dick.' 

'Oh,  I  expect  no  end.  Tell  her  he's 
killed.' 

*She  knows.' 

*She  had  got  a  wire.  That  isn't  the  joke, 
though.  You  see  he  got  into  a  hopeless 
muddle  about  which  side  of  the  veil  he  had 
come  out  on;  and  he  went  off  with  the  other 
ones,  and  they  wouldn't  have  him,  and  he 
got  lost  in  the  veil,  running  up  and  down 
it,  calling  to  us;  and  just  for  the  lark  we 
didn't  answer.'  He  chuckles.  'I  expect  he 
has  become  a  ghost ! '  With  sudden  con- 
sideration, 'Best  not  tell  his  mother  that.' 

Mr.  Don  rises,  wincing,  and  Dick  also  is 
at  once  on  his  feet,  full  of  compunction. 

*  Was  that  shabby  of  me  ?  Sorry,  father. 
We  are  all  pretty  young,  you  know,  and  we 
can't  help  having  our  fun  still.' 

*I  'm  glad  you  still  have  your  fun,'  the 
father  says,  once  more  putting  his  hands 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     171 

on  Dick's  shoulders.  'Let  me  look  at  you 
again,  Dick.  There  is  such  a  serenity 
about  you  now.' 

'  Serenity,  that 's  the  word  !  None  of  us 
could  remember  what  the  word  was.  It 's 
a  ripping  good  thing  to  have.  I  should  be 
awfully  bucked  if  you  would  have  it,  too.' 

'I '11  try.' 

*I  say,  how  my  tongue  runs  on!  But, 
after  all,  it  was  my  show.  Now,  you  tell 
me  some  things.' 

'  What  about,  Dick  ?     The  war  ? ' 

'No,'  almost  in  a  shout.  'We  have  a 
fine  for  speaking  about  the  war.  And  you 
know,  those  fellows  we  were  fighting — I 
forget  who  they  were.^' 

'The  Germans.' 

'Oh  yes.  Some  of  them  were  on  the 
same  side  of  the  veil  with  us,  and  they  were 
rather  decent;  so  we  chummed  up  in  the 
end  and  Ockley  took  us  all  away  together. 
They  were  jolly  lucky  in  getting  Ockley. 
There  I  go  again !     Come  on,   it 's  your 


172    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 
turn.     Has  the  bathroom  tap  been  mended 

yet?' 

*I  'm  afraid  it  is — just  tied  up  with  that 
string  still,  Dick.     It  works  all  right.' 

*It  only  needs  two  screw-nails,  you  know.* 

'I  '11  see  to  it.' 

*Do  you  know  whether  any  one  at  my 
tutors  got  his  fives  choice  this  half  ? ' 

'I  'm  sorry,  Dick,  but ' 

'  Or  who  is  the  captain  of  the  boats  ? ' 

*No,  I ' 

*  Whatever  have  you  been  doing?'  He 
is  moving  about  the  room.  'Hullo,  here  's 
mother's  work-box  !     Is  mother  all  right  ? ' 

'Very  sad  about  you,  Dick.' 
'Oh,  I  say,  that  isn't  fair.     Why  doesn't 
she  cheer  up  ? ' 

'It  isn't  so  easy,  my  boy.' 

'  It 's  pretty  hard  lines  on  me,  you  know.' 

*  How  is  that  ? ' 

.  *  If  you  are  sad,  I  have  to  be  sad.  That 's 
how  we  have  got  to  work  it  off.  You  can't 
think  how  we  want  to  be  bright.' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     173 

'I  '11  always  remember  that,  and  I  '11  tell 
your  mother.  Ah,  but  she  won't  believe 
me,  Dick;  you  will  have  to  tell  her  yourself.' 

*I  can't  do  that,  father.  I  can  only  come 
to  one.' 

*She  should  have  been  the  one;  she  loved 
you  best,  Dick.' 

'Oh,  I  don't  know.  Do  you  ever,'  with 
a  slight  hesitation,  'see  Laura  now?* 

'She  is  staying  with  us  at  present.* 

'Is  she  ?     I  think  I  should  like  to  see  her.' 

'  If  Laura  were  to  see  you ' 

'Oh,  she  wouldn't  see  me.  She  is  not 
dressed  in  black,  is  she  ? ' 

'No,  in  white.' 

'  Good  girl !  I  suppose  mother  is  in 
black.?' 

'Surely,  Dick.' 

'It 's  too  bad,  you  know.' 

'You  weren't  exactly — engaged  to  Laura, 
were  you,  Dick  ? '  A  bold  question  from  a 
father,  but  the  circumstances  were  unusual. 
Apologetically,  'I  never  rightly  knew.' 


174    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

*No!'  Dick  has  flung  back  his  head 
again.  Confidentially,  *  Father,  I  some- 
times thought  of  it,  but  it  rather  scared 
me !  I  expect  that  is  about  how  it  was  with 
her,  too.' 

*She  is  very  broken  about  you  now.' 

Irritated,  *0h,  hang!' 

'Would  you  like  her  to  forget  you,  Dick  ? ' 

'Rather  not.  But  she  might  help  a  fel- 
low a  bit.     Hullo  ! ' 

What  calls  forth  this  exclamation  is  the 
little  table  at  which  the  seance  had  taken 
place.  The  four  chairs  are  still  standing 
round  it,  as  if  they  were  guarding  something. 

*Here  's  something  new,  father;  this 
table.' 

*Yes,  it  is  usually  in  the  drawing-room.' 

*0f  course.     I  remember.' 

Mr.  Don  sets  his  teeth.  'Does  that  table 
suggest  anything  to  you,  Dick?' 

*To  me.^^  Let  me  think.  Yes,  I  used  to 
play  backgammon  on  it.  What  is  it  doing 
here  ? ' 


A  W:ELL-REMEMBERED  voice     175 

*Your  mother  brought  it  in.' 

*  To  play  games  on?     Mother!' 

'I  don't — know  that  it  was  a  game, 
Dick.' 

'But  to  play  anything!  I'm  precious 
glad  she  can  do  that.  Was  Laura  playing 
with  her  ? ' 

*She  was  helping  her.' 

*Good  for  Laura.'  He  is  looking  at  some 
slips  of  paper  on  the  table.  'Are  those 
pieces  of  paper  used  in  the  game?  There 
is  writing  on  them:  "The  first  letter  is  H 
— the  second  letter  is  A — the  third  letter  is 
R."     What  does  it  mean?' 

'Does  it  convey  no  meaning  to  you, 
Dick?' 

'Tome?    No;  why  should  it?' 

Mr.  Don  is  enjoying  no  triumph.  *Let 
us  go  back  to  the  fire,  my  boy.' 

Dick  follows  him  into  the  ingle-nook. 
'But,  why  should  it  convey  a  meaning  to 
me  ?  I  was  never  much  of  a  hand  at  indoor 
games.'    Brightly,  'I  bet  you  Ockley  would 


176    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

be  good  at  it.'  After  a  joyous  rumble, 
*Ockley's  nickname  still  sticks  to  him!' 

'I  don't  think  I  know  it.' 

'He  was  a  frightful  swell,  you  know. 
Keeper  of  the  field,  and  played  against  Har- 
row the  same  year.  I  suppose  it  did  go 
just  a  little  to  his  head.' 

They  are  back  in  their  old  seats,  and  Mr. 
Don  leans  forward  in  gleeful  anticipation. 
Probably  Dick  is  leaning  forward  in  the 
same  way,  and  this  old  father  is  merely 
copying  him. 

*What  did  you  nickname  him,  Dick?' 

*It  was  his  fags  that  did  it !' 

*I  should  like  to  know  it.  I  say,  do  tell 
me,  Dick.' 

*He  is  pretty  touchy  about  it  now,  you 
know.' 

*I  won't  tell  any  one.    Come  on,  Dick.' 

*His  fags  called  him  K.C.M.G.' 

*  Meaning,  meaning,  Dick.^*' 

'Meaning  "Kindly  Call  Me  God !"  ' 

Mr.  Don  flings  back  his  head;  so  we  know 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     177 

what  Dick  is  doing.  They  are  a  hilarious 
pair,  perhaps  too  noisy,  for  suddenly  Mr. 
Don  looks  at  the  door. 

*I  think  I  heard  some  one,  Dick!' 

'Perhaps  it 's  mother !' 

'She  may,'  nervously,  *have  heard  the 
row.* 

Dick's  eyes  must  be  twinkling.  *I  say, 
father,  you  '11  catch  it ! ' 

*I  can't  believe,  Dick,'  gazing  wistfully 
into  the  chair,  'that  she  won't  see  you.' 

It  is  a  sadder  voice  than  his  own  for  the 
moment  that  answers,  'Only  one  may  see 
me.' 

'You  will  speak  to  her,  Dick.  Let  her 
hear  your  voice.' 

'Only  one  may  hear  me.  I  could  make 
her  the  one;  but  it  would  mean  your  los- 
ing me.' 

*I  can't  give  you  up,  Dick.' 

Mrs.  Don  comes  in,  as  beautiful  as  ever, 
but  a  little  aggrieved. 

*I  called  to  you,  Robert.' 


178    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

*  Yes,  I  thought — I  was  just  going  to 


He  has  come  from  the  ingle-nook  to  meet 
her.  He  looks  from  her  to  Dick,  whom  he 
sees  so  clearly,  standing  now  by  the  fire. 
An  awe  falls  upon  Mr.  Don.  He  says  her 
name,  meaning,  *See,  Grace,  who  is  with  us.' 

Her  eyes  follow  his,  but  she  sees  nothing, 
not  even  two  arms  outstretched  to  her. 
'What  is  it,  Robert  ?    What  is  the  matter  ? ' 

She  does  not  hear  a  voice  say,  'Mother !' 

*I  heard  you  laughing,  Robert;  what  on 
earth  at  ? ' 

The  father  cannot  speak. 

*Now  you  're  in  a  hole,  father!'  says  a 
mischievous  voice. 

*Can  I  not  be  told,  Robert?' 

*  Something  in  the  paper,'  the  voice 
whispers. 

Mr.  Don  lifts  the  paper  feebly,  and  his 
wife  understands.  'Oh,  a  newspaper  joke! 
Please,  I  don't  want  to  hear  it.' 

*Was  it  my  laughing  that  brought  you 
back,  Grace?' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     179 

'No,  that  would  only  have  made  me 
shut  my  door.  If  Dick  thought  you  could 
laugh!'  She  goes  to  the  little  table.  'I 
came  back  for  these  slips  of  paper.'  She 
lifts  them  and  presses  them  to  her  breast. 
'These  precious  slips  of  paper!' 

Dick  was  always  a  curious  boy,  and  for- 
getting that  she  cannot  hear  him,  he  blurts 
out,  'How  do  you  mean,  mother?  Why 
are  they  precious?' 

Mr.  Don  forgets  also  and  looks  to  her 
for  an  answer. 

'What  is  it,  Robert?' 

'Didn't  you — hear  anything,  Grace?' 

'No.  Perhaps  Laura  was  calHng;  I  left 
her  on  the  stair.' 

'I  wish,'  Mr.  Don  is  fighting  for  Dick 
now,  'I  wish  Laura  would  come  back  and 
say  good-night  to  me.' 

'I  daresay  she  will.' 

'And,'  valiantly,  'if  she  could  be — rather 
brighter,  Grace.' 

'Robert!' 


180    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

'I  think  Dick  would  like  it.* 

Her  fine  eyes  reproach  him  mutely,  but 
she  says,  ever  forgiving,  'Is  that  how  you 
look  at  it,  Robert  ?  Very  well,  laugh  your 
fill — if  you  can.  But  if  Dick  were  to  ap- 
pear before  me  to-night * 

In  his  distress  Mr.  Don  cries  aloud  to  the 
figure  by  the  fire,  'Dick,  if  you  can  appear 
to  your  mother,  do  it.' 

There  is  a  pause  in  which  anything  may 
happen,  but  nothing  happens.  Yes,  some- 
thing has  happened:  Dick  has  stuck  to  his 
father. 

'  Really,  Robert !  *  Mrs.  Don  says,  and, 
without  a  word  of  reproach,  she  goes  away. 
Evidently  Dick  comes  to  his  father,  who 
has  sunk  into  a  chair,  and  puts  a  loving 
hand  on  him.  Mr.  Don  clasps  it  without 
looking  up. 

*  Father,  that  was  top-hole  of  you  !  Poor 
mother,  I  should  have  liked  to  hug  her;  but 
I  can't.' 

'You  should  have  gone  to  her,  Dick;  you 
shouldn't  have  minded  me.' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     181 

The  wiser  boy  says,  'Mother  's  a  darHng, 
but  she  doesn't  need  me  as  much  as  you 
do.' 

'I  don't  know.' 

*That  's  all  right.  I  'm  glad  she 's  so 
keen  about  that  game,  though.' 

He  has  returned  to  the  ingle-nook  when 
Laura  comes  in,  eager  to  make  amends  to 
Dick's  father  if  she  hurt  him  when  she 
went  out. 

Softly,  'I  have  come  to  say  good-night, 
Mr.  Don.' 

*It's  nice  of  you,  Laura,'  taking  both 
her  hands. 

Dick  speaks.  'I  want  her  to  come 
nearer  to  the  fire;  I  can't  see  her  very  well 
there.' 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Don  is  caught  out 
again;  but  Laura  has  heard  nothing.  He 
becomes  quite  cunning  in  Dick's  interests. 

'Your  hands  are  cold,  Laura;  go  over  to 
the  fire.     I  want  to  look  at  you.' 

She  sits  on  the  hearthstone  by  Dick's  feet. 

Shyly,  'Am  I  all  right?' 


18S    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

It  is  Dick  who  answers.  *You  're  aw- 
fully pretty,  Laura.  You  are  even  prettier 
than  I  thought.  I  remember  I  used  to 
think,  she  can't  be  quite  as  pretty  as  I 
think  her;  and  then  when  you  came  you 
were  just  a  little  prettier.' 

She  has  been  warming  her  hands.  'Why 
don't  you  say  anything  .f^'  she  asks  Mr. 
Don. 

*I  was  thinking  of  you  and  Dick,  Laura.' 

'What  a  pretty  soul  she  has,  father,'  says 
the  boy;  'I  can  see  right  down  into  it  now.' 

'If  Dick  had  lived,  Laura,  do  you  think 
that  you  and  he ? ' 

With  shining  eyes,  'I  think — if  he  had 
wanted  it  very  much.' 

'I  expect  he  would,  my  dear.' 

There  is  an  odd  candour  about  Dick's 
contribution,  'I  think  so,  too,  but  I  never 
was  quite  sure.'  They  are  a  very  young 
pair. 

Laura  is  trembling  a  little.  'Mr. 
Don ' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     183 

*  Yes,  Laura  ? ' 

*I  think  there  is  something  wicked  about 
me.  I  sometimes  feel — quite  Hght-hearted 
— though  Dick  has  gone.' 

'Perhaps,  nowadays,  the  fruit  trees  have 
that  sort  of  shame  when  they  blossom, 
Laura;  but  they  can't  help  doing  it.  I 
hope  you  are  yet  to  be  a  happy  woman,  a 
happy  wife.' 

'It  seems  so  heartless  to  Dick.' 

'Not  a  bit;  it 's  what  I  should  like,'  Dick 
says. 

'It 's  what  he  would  like,  Laura.' 

'Do  you  remember,  Laura,'  Dick  goes  on, 
*I  kissed  you  once.  It  was  under  a  lilac  in 
the  Loudon  Woods.  I  loiew  at  the  time 
that  you  were  angry,  and  I  should  have 
apologised.     I  'm  sorry,  Laura.' 

His  sweetheart  has  risen,  tasting  some- 
thing bitter-sweet.  'What  is  it,  Laura .'^' 
Mr.  Don  asks. 

'Somehow — I  don't  know  how — but,  for 
a  moment  I  seemed  to  feel  the  smell  of 


184    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

lilac.     Dick  was  once — nice  to  me  under  a 

lilac.     Oh,  Mr.  Don '     She  goes  to  him 

like  a  child,  and  he  soothes  and  pets  her. 

'There,  there!  That  will  be  all  right, 
quite  all  right.'  He  takes  her  to  the  door. 
*  Good-night,  my  dear.' 

*  Good-night,  Mr.  Don.' 

*  Good-bye,  Laura,'  says  the  third  voice. 

Mr.  Don  is  looking  so  glum  that  the  mo- 
ment they  are  alone  Dick  has  to  cry  warn- 
ingly,  '  Face ! '  He  is  probably  looking 
glum  himself,  for  he  says  candidly,  'Pretty 
awful  things,  these  partings.  Father,  don't 
feel  hurt  though  I  dodge  the  good-bye  busi- 
ness when  I  leave  you.' 

'That 's  so  like  you,  Dick!' 

'I  '11  have  to  go  soon.' 

'Oh,  Dick !     Can't  you ' 

'There  's  something  I  want  not  to  miss, 
you  see.' 

'I  'm  glad  of  that.' 

'I  'm  not  going  yet;  but  I  mean  that 
when  I  do  I  '11  just  slip  away.' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE     185 

*What  I  am  afraid  of  is  that  you  won't 
come  back.* 

'  I  will — honest  Injun — if  you  keep  bright.' 

'But,  if  I  do  that,  Dick,  you  might  think 
I  wasn't  missing  you  so  much.' 

'We  know  better  than  that.  You  see,  if 
you  're  bright,  I  '11  get  a  good  mark  for  it.' 

'I  '11  be  bright.' 

Dick  pops  him  into  the  settle  again. 

'Remember  your  pipe.' 

'Yes,  Dick.' 

'Do  you  still  go  to  that  swimming-bath, 
and  do  your  dumb-bell  exercises  ? ' 

'No,  I ' 

'You  must.' 

'All  right,  Dick,  I  will.' 

'  And  I  want  you  to  be  smarter  next  time. 
Your  hair  's  awful.' 

'I '11  get  it  cut,  Dick.' 

'Are  you  hard  at  work  over  your  picture 
of  those  three  Graces  ? ' 

'  No.  I  put  that  away.  I  'm  just  doing 
little  things  nowadays.     I  can't — -' 


186    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE 

*Look  here,  sonny,  you  've  got  to  go  on 
with  it.  You  don't  seem  to  know  how  in- 
terested I  am  in  your  future.' 

'Very  well,  Dick;  I  '11  bring  it  out  again.' 

Mr.  Don  hesitates. 

'Dick,  there  is  something  I  have  wanted 
to  ask  you  all  the  time.' 

Some  fear  seems  to  come  into  the  boy's 
voice.     'Don't  ask  it,  father.' 

'I  shall  go  on  worrying  about  it  if  I  don't 
— but  just  as  you  like,  Dick.' 

*Go  ahead,  father;  ask  me.' 

'It  is  this.  Would  you  rather  be — here 
^than  there  ? ' 

After  a  pause  the  boy  says,  'Not  always.' 

'  What  is  the  great  difference,  Dick  ? ' 

'Well,  down  here  one  knows  he  has  risks 
to  run.' 

'And  you  miss  that.'*' 

'It  must  be  rather  jolly.' 

'Did  you  know  that  was  what  I  was  to 
ask.?' 

'Yes.     But,  remember,  I  'm  young  at  it.' 


A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE    187 

*And  your  gaiety,  Dick;  is  it  all  real,  or 
only  put  on  to  help  me?' 

*It  's— it 's  half  and  half,  father.' 

*Face!'  he  cries,  next  moment.  Then 
cajolingly,  'Father,  KC.M.G.!' 

*When  will  you  come  again,  Dick?' 

'There  's  no  saying.  One  can't  always 
get  through.  They  keep  changing  the  pass- 
word.' His  voice  grows  troubled.  'It's 
awfully  diflScult  to  get  the  password.' 

'AVhat  was  it  to-night?' 

'Love  Bade  Me  Welcome.' 

Mr.  Don  rises;  he  stares  at  his  son. 

'How  did  you  get  it,  Dick?' 

'I  'm  not  sure.'  Dick  seems  to  go  closer 
to  his  father,  as  if  for  protection.  'There 
are  lots  of  things  I  don't  understand  yet.' 

'There  are  things  I  don't  understand 
either.  Dick,  did  you  ever  try  to  send  mes- 
sages— from  there — to  us?' 

'Me?     No.' 

'Or  get  messages  from  us?' 

'No.     How  could  we?' 


188    A  WELL-REMEMBERED  VOICE  , 

*Is  there  anything  in  it?' 

Mr.  Don  is  not  speaking  to  his  son.  He 
goes  to  the  httle  table  and  looks  long  at  it. 
Has  it  taken  on  a  sinister  aspect.'^  Those 
chairs,  are  they  guarding  a  secret.^ 

'Dick,  this  table — ^your  mother — how 
could  they ' 

He  turns,  to  find  that  Dick  has  gone. 

'Dick!    My  boy!    Dick!' 

The  well-remembered  voice  leaves  a  mes- 
sage behind  it. 

*Be  bright,  father.' 

Mr.  Don  sits  down  by  the  fire  to  think  it 
all  out. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGli)' 


AA    000  380  367    3 


